


At What Cost?

by SacraImbri



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Action & Romance, F/M, Non-Canon Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:08:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 126,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23875732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SacraImbri/pseuds/SacraImbri
Summary: Tethys Amell is a formidable young Enchanter, but youth and freedom can be their own folly. Can she save her kingdom and her world, and at what cost to her heart?
Relationships: Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Cullen Rutherford/Female Warden, Female Amell/Cailan Theirin
Kudos: 4





	1. A letter and a Harrowing

**Author's Note:**

> I've logged something over 200 hours on Dragon Age: Origins since I received it as a birthday present back in 2009. It's the characters and the potential plot-twists that keep bringing me back for another play-through. One thing has always bugged me, though. Why is the king of Ferelden so very warm and familiar with the newest Warden recruit? Why on Thedas would he be waiting to welcome her at the gates of Ostagar, and why would he choose the least qualified individual in all of Thedas to attend the high-level mission briefing before that final, fateful battle? Unless there's a secret history there that the game never explains... 
> 
> All characters, locations, and creatures herein are the property of Bioware, and many conversations from the early game are included verbatim. 
> 
> You will note repeated reference to Alistair's golden eyes. Somewhere between the release of Origins in 2009 and the Awakenings expansion in 2010, Alistair underwent a subtle eye color shift. That shift was increased greatly in the 2011 Dragon Age II cameo. Current cannon has his eyes as the unmistakable Theirin blue, but the first time I saw his introduction cut-scene, and pretty much every time I see it, since I play unmodded, that gaze is golden.

My darling Tethys,

One day you will have mastered ancient cyphers, and will read my words to you. I can only hope that you will be free and back in my arms long before that day, but if I die in the attempt, I would have you at least know that I love you and never intended for you to be taken. You were born of love and of joy, and will ever live close to my heart   
The young Knight-Captain, Meredith, proclaimed that your life, and that of untold others depended upon the Circle containing the “Maker’s curse” as she ripped you from my arms in the Chantry square. I was powerless against the force of her Templars, and for the first time in my life, my name held no weight or power. I went to the Gallows and sat vigil on the steps for days, demanding an audience with Knight-Commander Guylian, begging to see you. The Templars would not talk to me, and only upon his appearance behind me did I learn that the Knight-Commander had been in Orlais when you were taken. He banished me from the Gallows steps, but promised me an audience the day following, when he would have had opportunity to review all of the actions taken in his absence.

The name of Guylian will forever be a curse and blessing in my mouth. Even as he sent me away, you were being Silenced, dosed with magebane, so that you might be bound and caged for the journey across the Waking Sea for Ferelden and Kinloch Hold. When I arrived for my audience upon the following dawn, it was the greatly chastised Meredith who escorted me to the Knight-Commander’s personal study. She was made to apologize for her cruelty to me in the means of your taking and the undeserved punishment of the weeks of silent degradation by the Templars under her temporary command as I waited on the Gallows steps. I could see from the cold flames of her pale eyes that she did not mean a single sound of the apology, and yet she put the correct tones into the words. That gave me hope that with the Knight-Commander’s return, I might be able to at least give a proper farewell, for I knew even then that you might be sent far from this city and all of the political turmoil caused by your name in conjunction with the Gallows.

Yet moments after Meredith was dismissed I was given the news that shattered my very soul. You were already being loaded upon a ship and to be banished across the sea to the most tightly guarded and restrictively run Circle in all of Thedas. The terror of the barbaric Ferelden people is second only to that of the Anders, who have no Circles at all. Ferelden imprisons her Circle within a tower built in the center of an ice-cold, leviathan-infested lake. It is widely known that Meghren ordered his Knight-Commander to march the battle mages of the tower upon Queen Moira’s rebels, but they refused. It is also widely known that the Circle declined to join with King Maric in freeing the kingdom from Orlesian Occupation. The stern neutrality and separation of the Circle at Kinloch hold does not endear mages to the people of Ferelden as our own open doors to the Gallows once did. Yet you will have already learned this, my darling. 

I can only hope that the young Prince of Ferelden keeps his word to me that he will watch over you. It was, after all, his life that you saved at the cost of your own future. I can only hope he has been able to find a messenger to slip this note to you as he promised me before boarding the same vessel that was to be your prison transport. 

In hopes of being able to see or speak with you again, I am seeking out the remaining channels my cousin Leandra did not destroy when she ran off and made one of the most promising Enchanters Thedas has ever known into an Apostate. I find I can no longer fault her for it, regardless of the scandal we have endured, for I would do the same if it meant I might hold you again, my darling daughter. 

That your first act with your new-found power was to shield a fallen child, holding an entire pack of wolves at bay along the Wounded Coast until her father could pepper them with enough arrows that they sought easier game, speaks well of who you have always been. The young elven girl and her father were good to their word and never spoke of what they had seen, and for years you were trained in secret within the shelter of the deep cellars of House Amell. You trained in control and masking your talent, and my secret tutor swore to me you were given no lessons to strengthen your talent. I would curse the villain Gascard DuPuis for teaching you to seek more power and master more talents, but your life and others will no doubt rely on that early training very much in the days to come. As for your villainous tutor, he at least had the decency to disappear from Kirkwall, back to the Orlesian sewers that spawned him no doubt. The barest of blessings that, since it means your brothers will not have access to his teachings should any of them develop magical talent, but nor will they be marked by my crime in attempting to hide your gifts.

Either way, all of Ferelden owes you a debt that they will likely never know. You are old enough, I think, that the memory of today will stay with you, but should anyone seek to twist or hide it, let me tell you of my pride and sorrow. I should have paid better mind when you tugged at my skirts and pointed to the “Pretty Golden Boy,” in the Chantry square. I was busy watching the pageantry of the young Prince’s parade through the square, with anticipated stops within the Chantry and up to the Viscount’s Keep. I should have paid closer heed when you began a discontented fretting about “bad men watching the pretty golden boy.” I was too transfixed by the spectacle and neither I, nor anyone else noticed you slipping between legs and under skirts to be closer to the young prince. If any had, they paid no mind to a harmless noble child. Not a soul saw you scanning the high towers for the source of ill intent that only you had skill enough to perceive through that throng of excitement. Absolutely everyone took notice, however, when you flung yourself into the unwary arms of the prince, screaming “He won’t hurt you, golden boy!” Everyone saw the half-dozen arrows break in mid-air against an unseen barrier, and everyone heard the inhuman wails of pain that sounded out from atop the tower where the arrows originated. All eyes of the crowd gazed up in horror as five hooded men tried to drag away a howling sixth, only for every last one of them to be suddenly rendered into paste as the screaming one exploded in a violent storm of vaporizing blood and bone shrapnel. 

The crowds poured from the square, save for the Templars and guardsmen who closed in from every corner to defend the prince, and me. I raced over, under, around, though the thronging evacuation as demanded to reach your side first. As the barrier collapsed, you fell limp in the Prince’s arms, subjected to the silencing talents of no less than ten Templars. I took you from his surprised embrace and held you close, right up until the moment the Knight-Captain ripped you from my arms. The power of that young expression of magic no doubt terrified the Templars and guardsmen who had not responded with anywhere near the speed and decisiveness that my beautiful child did. 

Knight-Captain Meredith vowed she would call for the rite of Tranquility. Fortunate for us both that from your young age, she assumed it the first act of your emerging talent and not a product of several years’ careful training, for then she could have declared you Apostate and would not have needed the authorization of her Knight-Commander for Tranquility.

Your bravery and the ferocity of your will moved Viscount Threnhold, I learned as I waited on the steps of the Gallows. He would make of you a martyr, though, use our plight to fuel his campaign against Orlesian intrusion and political machination within our fair Kirkwall. You are my child, though, not his symbol. 

Ferelden’s Prince intervened, with, as I understand, the aid of a Grey Warden within his retinue. The Prince used every bit of his considerable charm to sway Grand Cleric Elthinia to send you to Ferelden’s Circle, and out of Knight-Captain Meredeth’s vengeful eye. He assured me this was so he might one day repay the service you gave him with an appointment as enchanter to the crown. When Elthinia seemed unwilling to relent to charm or logic, the Grey Warden threatened to conscript you for your own safety.   
This I learned as I left my meeting with Knight-Commander Guylian and was met by the very Grey Warden, Fiona. She brought me to the Prince. He explained the long, grueling discussions with first Elthinia, and then with Guylian. Then, he made the solemn promise to me that he would watch over you, and bade me write this letter so that you would at least have this piece of me to keep your memory within the Circle tower. I pray to Andraste and the Maker that the prince keeps his promise, and that you will read this and know how very much I love you, my daughter. I go now to try once more to move your father to consider relocating with your brothers and I across the waking sea. If he will not go, I will take the boys and seek you out on my own. I go also to make alliances that are not safe to commit to paper, but with great hope, they will bring me to your side and place you back within my arms.

If I should fail, know that you are my heart, and I am proud of my mage daughter. Never forget that you are Tethys of House Amell, a lady by right of birth, and a free woman by grace of the Maker. May he and Andraste watch over you always, my daughter.  
All my love,

Revka Amell  
*******

My fingers tremble as I read the letter, and my tears stain the yellowed page, as they have each time I have poured over the words in the years since a young man in borrowed Templar armor slipped it into my hands, vowing to one day free me from my cage. Today would be my eighteenth name-day. Tonight I will undergo the Harrowing within Kinloch hold. For not the first time, I wonder how a letter written the day I was placed upon the boat to Ferelden, and given directly to the hands of Ferelden’s Prince took nearly six years to reach my own hands. 

“Tethys, you are to be Harrowed tonight.” The soft, stern tones of Senior Enchanter Justine’s commanding voice break into my reverie, and I hasten to slip the note into my pocket, lest the cyphers be broken by another. “I have no fear that you may not succeed,” she says to me, laying a gentle hand upon my shoulder, “however, not all mages return. I want you to know the whole truth of yourself, your power, before you enter that chamber.” I look up into eyes holding some steely expression that I can see she wants me to reflect. “Tethys, you destroyed an entire cell of assassins at the age of six, and held a shield over two people at the same time. You did it because you would not see an innocent young man be harmed. Your will is that great, and your focus. You are the most formidable, dangerous, and yet disciplined student I have ever had the pleasure to mentor. You must remember this always. Your life will depend upon it tonight, and every day after that you spend in the robes of the Circle.”

“I… must go,” I say, feeling my soul quiver under the steely gaze I never knew my mentor possessed.

Justine’s eyes regain their usual warm patience as she bids me go. I wonder, as I had so many times over the years, how she might have guessed at what I was thinking of in the moment she interrupted.

I walk down the hall toward my bunk in a haze. I have always known that my gift was potent, and that the specialists in Spirit had paid close attention and care with my training, but I had rarely thought of myself as dangerous. I had vague memories of my first years in the tower, mostly that the Enchanters in the school of Spirit had taken particular care in raising me. 

A young man in borrowed Templar armor had gifted me a book and spent a few weeks instructing me in codes and cyphers about the time I was eight. I do not know how I knew it was borrowed armor, after all his bearing and demeanor fooled all of the Templars, and all of the mages save me and the First Enchanter. I knew he was no Templar, but could not for the life of me understand why First Enchanter Irving allowed his infiltration year after year. He brought me letters to decode with every visit, and I have no doubt he was also instrumental in First Enchanter Irving’s special project for me with correspondence of the Mage’s Collective. I remember seeing the name Revka over and over in the missives, and not knowing why a pang set in my heart each time. I finally had an image to put with the name on the day my not-Templar pressed the age-yellowed letter into my palm. Pale skin with dove-grey eyes and long, soft hair the color of raven’s wings. I have dreamed of my mother often, but she had only been “Mother” before I read the letter. For years now, she has also been Revka, fearless assassin, breaker of chains, and seeker of freedom for all of us who wither away within the dark cages of our Circles. I have had to suppress tears each time I decode a missive for the First Enchanter that mentions her, yet I have no choice but to comply, for to do otherwise would be to set myself openly against the Circle while I may yet be subject to the rite of Tranquility, after which my services could be commanded and I would feel nothing but the urge to comply.

I spy Knight-Lieutenant Cullen on duty, guarding the apprentice dorm. I slow my steps to have more time to admire the broad stretch of his shoulders, the fine taper to his strong hips. Cullen is a mere two years older than I, and has often been set to be my guard for training. His will, his strength, his skill at magic suppression are unparalleled within all of Kinloch hold. I realize in this moment that this is not only why he is a Knight-Lieutenant so young, but also why it was necessary to have him as my guard so often. Looking over the planes of his handsome face, I realize had never thought of it this way before, I had always simply assumed my mentors paired me with Cullen for his gentleness and patience. I was always the smallest and one of the youngest apprentices in my levels due to my rapid grasp of early principles of magic and control. I have always liked Cullen. He spoke to me like a person, and did not try to bully or intimidate any of the apprentices as some of the other Templar initiates had. I had only been realizing over the last few years, however, how attractive Cullen really is. He has been a full Templar for three years now, and has been put in charge of some of the classes of younger initiates. He had asked me on several occasions to assist him with demonstrations for courses on defense against Mages and how to subdue and contain young mages without harming them. Forbidden though it is, I could not help but feel a charge of excitement spiraling all the way up from my nethers every time he placed those large, strong, calloused hands on me. I even felt a thrill at the sensation of his gentle, soothing will enfolding mine to calm and silence my magic. I go out of my way to watch Templar physical training and sparring matches if I know Cullen is participating.  
As I draw closer, Cullen’s eyes lock with mine, and I see a strange expression. Forgetting all decorum, I go straight to Cullen and ask “what’s wrong?” 

“I’m to take you to the Harrowing chamber,” he tells me, his voice odd and rather hollow. 

“I don’t see how that’s wrong,” I say brightly, though even I can hear the note of worry in my voice, “every mage goes through the Harrowing.” 

Cullen takes me by the upper arm, gently, and I can feel a trembling in his grasp. “Yes,” he all but whispers to me, “but not every mage is you, and I’m not assigned to every Harrowing.”

I stop still, and turn to Cullen. It is worry for me I see in his eyes, and a concern that goes deep. Could he really feel the same deep, abiding connection I do? “Cullen,” his name on my lips is a caress, and I do my best to tell him that with my eyes, as I lay my own hand in comfort over his, “I am glad you will be there. Your will strengthens me, reassures me. I can only succeed with you nearby. Let’s go and face my challenge.”

My smile is true and confident as I turn back down the hall and allow Cullen to escort me. I can feel a heat and tension in him that excites me to the core, but he is silent the rest of the way to the Harrowing chamber.

I am shocked when First Enchanter Irving explains the Harrowing. My consciousness will be fully entered into the fade and pitted directly against a demon. Only my will and control will protect me, and the Templars will strike me down if I fail. In this moment, Justine’s warning makes complete sense. Cullen’s worry makes complete sense. I close my eyes for a moment, take a deep breath, and feel for Cullen’s will. There it is, strong and sure and warm. I feel the corners of my mouth pulling upward as I look First Enchanter Irving in the eyes and tell him, “I am ready.” I inhale the vapor of the burning Lyrium, and all is blackness.


	2. A meeting and a plot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A newly harrowed mage faces temptation and conspiracy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One little not-quite-cannon plot twist. Though I never had the mod for the Cullen romance scene, the potential seemed there from my very first play-through. Our favorite curly-haired Knight-Lieutenant was far too controlled for more than a kiss, but those feelings would have to run incredibly deep for even that. Young people between 18 and 25 have a ton of evolutionary drives, however, and not always a fully functioning sense of the rational.

Jowan awakens me and tells me it is the next morning. I blink my eyes and stare about at my cot in the Apprentice dorms. Somewhere in the back of my mind are vague memories of willing one demon to explode and forcing another, who had taken on the face of a fade-stranded apprentice, out and away. Jowan is more anxious than usual today, jumpy even. He congratulates me and tells me I must go see the First Enchanter, but not before worrying to me that he has not been through his Harrowing yet. I can sense his will, and it is a pale, sickly thing compared to Cullen’s. I figure that weakness of will is why he has not yet been Harrowed. I remind him that his Harrowing will come when he is ready, and take my leave to see the First Enchanter.

On the way out, I hear two of the gossips from the terminal apprentice class whispering about how Cullen carried me from the Harrowing chamber, and has stood vigil outside all night. “Well he would, wouldn’t he,” I hear the catty whisper of Margot, my least favorite classmate, “I’ve seen the way he looks at her.”

I do not bother to listen to more. Though I admit to myself a burning curiosity regarding just how Cullen does look at me. I am surprised to find truth in one of Margot’s rumors, as I all but run bodily into Cullen, standing vigil just as reported outside the dorm. I walk to him, wreathed in smiles. “Hello, Cullen.”

“H.. how are you, after your Harrowing?” I can see the strain around his eyes, the haunted shadows at their depths.

“I’m well, I succeeded, and I hear you carried me from the chamber after all was blackness, thank you.”

“I’m so glad you succeeded. I was the one assigned to strike the killing blow, had you become an abomination.”

“I’m so sorry, Cullen, I think you were given that assignment as a test, because you treat us mages like people.”

“I would have done my duty, but I don’t think I would have ever recovered,” he tells me sorrowfully. 

I look into his eyes and know his words for truth. He wraps his strong fingers around my small, soft ones, and I feel my heart surge. After a few thundering heartbeats, I remind him that I must see the First Enchanter, but make him promise we will talk later.  
That moment of heart-thundering contact means that I walk in on the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander Greagoir arguing War and Politics. A third man, dark, tall, and striking, stands to the side of the dispute. He alone notices my quiet entry, and brings the argument to a temporary halt.

The First Enchanter introduces the stranger as Duncan, the Captain of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden. I greet him amiably, though his shrewd, assessing gaze makes me a little uneasy. He is here to urge the Chantry to release more mages to the war with encroaching bands of Darkspawn pouring from the Korcari Wilds. For the first time in my recollection, I remember the stench of the Hurlock who laid waste to the Templar keeping me silenced in the Wagon as we crossed overland from landfall at Jader. It was my not-Templar who explained to me all of the problems and pitfalls of my journey to Kinloch Hold, the day he gave me my mother’s letter. I’d not remembered much of the journey, but I had been plagued by terrible nightmares of inhuman creatures that sat upon and devoured guardsmen and Templars alike. The nightmare becomes a waking memory as I look into Duncan’s eyes, and I feel my power rising of its own accord. Iforce back the rising tide of power as I search those dark eyes, and then assess the man. His face is familiar to me somehow, but it’s like the haze of a remembered fade dream. Perhaps I met him some time before my memories turned clear and solid. I turn to the First Enchanter and ask how Ferelden is faring in the war with the darkspawn that I have heard about in whispered rumor, and if I may be sent to the front.

I see Duncan’s smile of approval even as I catch Irving’s frown. The First Enchanter will consider my request, but today is a day of rest and celebration. He asks the favor from me of escorting Duncan to his quarters, and I use the opportunity to learn more about Duncan, the Wardens, and the war with the Darkspawn. By the time we arrive at Duncan’s quarters, that shrewd assessment no longer gives me pause, and I find I genuinely like and respect the man. I do not find the time or courage to ask how or why I feel I should know him, but if he is recruiting for the Wardens, I have half a mind to put my name forth. I feel I could follow such a leader. Yet, that phrase “threatened to conscript you” from my mother’s letter echoes through my mind and summons all the uneasiness I knew on first meeting Duncan’s eyes. Being a Grey Warden is an ominous calling and something to me mourned and feared as much as celebrated from my memory of many old tales. 

I do not have long to contemplate that, as Jowan accosts me in the hall. Being even more on-edge than he was this morning, bordering on paranoid in fact, he takes me to the Chapel to talk. There he introduces me to the love of his life, Lily. I have seen her about, she is an initiate of the Chantry, having already taken vows before she was transferred to Kinloch hold and laid eyes upon Jowan. 

I have immediate sympathy for their plight. Her will is no stronger than Jowan’s, but I can feel the love cascading from them both like a mountain flood. Jowan tells me that Lily has learned he will face the right of Tranquility, which will remove his ability to love, remove his feelings for Lily. Logically, I can appreciate that Tranquility would be a tidy solution to the problem posed by this situation, for Jowan would forget the love that so endangers both of them. However, I grew up under the threat of tranquility, and even my non-magical mother feared that implication. I also remember the feel of Cullen’s will bolstering my own, and I know I must bend greater heart to Jowan and Lily’s plight. They ask my help in a scheme to leave the tower, and I beg a moment to think.   
I seek Cullen out, and ask him to speak with me privately. Seeing the haunted concern that contorts my face, he comes willingly. As his vigil was released when I woke from my post-Harrowing slumber, and he has no duties until first light tomorrow, I ask him to guard me for a walk upon the shoreline, which will provide ample privacy. As the cold breeze from across the freezing waters of Lake Callenhad sets my hair to dancing, Cullen wraps his cloak around both of us, and I snuggle close to his side. Feeling my heart race at the proximity, I clear my throat and explain that I have a mage friend who is in love with a servant of the Chantry, and cannot eat, sleep, think, etc. for want of the forbidden love. Before I can explain that my friend and his lover plan to escape the tower, Cullen has me in his arms, his lips pressing to mine. Heat suffuses my being, and I feel myself melt against his plate-armored body. My hands slip up to twine in the tight, blonde curls at the nape of his neck.

I am a poor friend, as I forget entirely about Jowan in that moment. I moan with ecstatic pleasure, and yield to the pressure of Cullen’s mouth, my tongue twining with his. His gauntleted hands roam my back and smooth my hair. My blood thunders in my ears for what seems an eternity as we kiss. Eventually we must break the kiss to breathe, and I wilt against the hard wall of Cullen’s breastplate.

For a long time we hold one another in blissful quiet, but the enormity of what we have just done eventually settles upon us.

“Oh Maker, Cullen, what have we done?” I whisper into the silence.

“Tested every vow I have ever made.” He whispers back, his voice thick with conflicted emotions.

“I now understand them completely,” I sigh, resting my head upon Cullen’s chest, and reveling in the pounding of his heart, which I can hear even through the pads and plate.

“Them?” he asks.

“My friend and his lover, the ones I just told you about?” I probe his memory gently as I press my hands against his chest to look up into his eyes.

“That wasn’t a confession of your feelings?” Cullen asks, his bearing growing tight and rigid in a heartbeat.

“I’ve longed for you, but I would never have forced my affection on you, or intentionally imperiled your vows as I’ve just done.” I gaze lovingly into Cullen’s eyes and see the wariness melt. “My friend loves an initiate, but is under the threat of the Rite of Tranquility. Now knowing what it’s like to feel the passion I’ve yearned for returned, I understand why he’s so terrified of Tranquility.”

“I didn’t realize Jowan was your friend,” Cullen mumbles apologetically, tension stiffening his limbs, even as he holds me to him.

“Then it’s true? You’re going to make him Tranquil?” I ask.

“Yes, but not necessarily me, and not for his love, we didn’t know about that. Jowan is Malificar, the Knight-Commander has proof.”

“Dear Maker, no!” I push away with a gasp, and turn from Cullen, my whole body cold with sudden fear. I shudder both from the fear and from the loss of Cullen’s warmth in the cold afternoon breeze.

“I was certain you weren’t complicit in his crimes,” Cullen sighs, tension releasing from him as he takes me once more in his arms, pressing my back to the comforting wall of his breastplate and wrapping me again in the comforting folds of his cloak.

“I was leaning toward being accomplice to his and his lover’s escape. I was thinking of going to the Warden and asking that they be conscripted, so that they might be free of the tower and their vows, yet still together… As a Blood Mage though, with his weak will, Jowan endangers us all!” I shudder at the thought, even within the comforting strength of Cullen’s embrace. He rests a tear-dampened cheek upon my head, even as sorrow falls wetly down from my own eyes. 

“You’d have slain me if I’d become an abomination,” I mutter sadly. “It’s because you care for me that you would’ve done it. I’ve repaid your affection by seducing you and testing your vows,” I sigh, feeling defeated. After a moment and a deep breath, I straighten my back and turn to gaze into Cullen’s tear-filled blue eyes. “Cullen, my dear one, can you forgive me?”

“I could forgive you anything, my dearest Tethys, but you’ve done nothing needing forgiveness,” he whispers, kissing me one more time before releasing me and taking several steps away.

I can feel his will settle in and steel himself against the temptation I present. I can feel myself doing the same. I care for him far too much to unmake him, and regardless of his words, the moment of weakness, of bowing to temptation, has wronged Cullen. I resolve to go to the First Enchanter and tell him about Jowan and Lily, and also to request immediate assignment to the war contingent. It’s safest for Cullen’s heart and my own if we have time and space to overcome our temptation.

“Thank you, Cullen,” I whisper. “You’ve given me the insight I needed.”

Cullen’s mouth curls at the corner, wryly, and he takes his leave, telling me that he will be long at prayers this evening.

When I speak with the First Enchanter, he knows all about Jowan and Lily’s affair, and confirms Knight Commander Greagoir’s proof of Jowan’s blood magic. The First Enchanter, however, demands that the Chantry pay the same price as the circle for the transgression, as he is certain that Jowan turned to blood magic only after he was seduced by the dream of leaving the tower with Lily.

Hearing the First Enchanter speak so vehemently against the tyranny of the Templars, I remind him that the Wardens can conscript anyone, which could resolve the dispute for both Chantry and Tower. Irving will not hear it, as I knew he wouldn’t. Malificar are too dangerous. Irving orders me to assist in the escape plan so that both lovers may be caught. I feel unclean at this betrayal, but just as I had no choice in decoding the incriminating missives about my mother, I have no choice now. I resolve myself against my friend, reminding myself that for love and duty, Cullen and I have stepped back from our own passion. Jowan should have done the same, and he would if only his own will were stronger.

I volunteer my assistance as directed by the First Enchanter, and Lily gives me the plan. I enlist the First Enchanter’s aid and let him know that step one is to destroy Jowan’s phylactery. Thus the trap is set. Twin stones of regret and guilt sit in my heart through my own celebration dinner. Between dinner and the curfew bells, I pen a letter to Cullen. Not knowing what will happen tonight, but knowing that whatever befalls me I need to tell him goodbye. My tears stain the parchment and smear the ink as my quill pours my sorrow on the page.

******  
My Dearest Cullen,

Please know that I did not assist in any of the events surrounding Jowan’s escape attempt willingly. I went to the First Enchanter, just as I said. Irving bade me be complicit and assist. He intends that I determine the extent of the plot and uncover any weakness in our security. If all is as it should be, Jowan is Tranquil when you read these words, and Lily reassigned to a cloister somewhere for her heart to heal from this grievous wound. I have already requested reassignment to the front, as there are temptations here in Kinloch Hold I fear would test my own resolve past bearing.

Your will and your strength are greater than any man I have ever known, and I hope they will only strengthen you and continue to serve you well. One way or another, I will be removed as a test to them. One day I hope Andraste and the Maker forgive can us both.

Wanted or not, forbidden or not, I care deeply for you, my Templar. Come what may, the part of you I have taken with me will forever reside in my heart.  
Please forgive me,

Tethys Amell  
*****


	3. Duty, introductions, and tales on the road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NOT SAFE FOR WORK:  
> Tethys betrays a friend out of duty to the Circle and receives exile as a reward. While en route to her destiny, the Warden Commander tells her of other recruits, and Tethys takes to the Fade for consolation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW!!
> 
> In this chapter, I visit the tales of all the warden recruits options from DA:O that I didn't choose. Considering Duncan was on duty for heavy-recruitment to scale up for a blight, I could never bring myself to believe that he would pass up all the opportunities presented in the various origin stories. I simply elongated the timeline a bit, so that all the potentials were recruited and underwent the joinings at different times. 
> 
> This chapter also involves dream-hopping, which is a feat I always thought that many of the Mages of Thedas could manage without undue effort after the first conversations with Valour and the demons in the Harrowing ritual. After finally breaking down and buying/playing Dragon Age II in 2018, I gather the feat isn't as common as I thought, but I wrote these scenes much longer ago than that and unlike Tethys Amell's origin - where I had to completely retcon my headcanon - I figured that the ability to recognize dreams from the raw fade and share them doesn't change the face of Thedas for everyone.

After the final bells of curfew for apprentices, Jowan, Lily, and I meet in the Chapel. We break into the Repository as planned, and destroy Jowan’s Phylactery. I try more than once to dissuade them, but I see now how love and desire can corrupt one’s reasoning. As we are met at the tower entrance by the First Enchanter, Knight Commander, and a contingent of Templars, the regret that my friend will be made Tranquil resurfaces. I try one more time to intercede, to beg for conscription to the Grey rather than Rite of Tranquility, but Jowan forces all hands in the matter, using Blood Magic to disable the entire contingent of Templar. The adoration upon Lily’s face turns to revulsion, and I stare in horror as my forced participation in the escape of a Blood Mage unfolds before me.

My only solace in the whole event is that Cullen is not present to see Jowan’s escape, and that I have already written the truth for him. I can only hope he will know from my own hand that my participation was ordered by the First Enchanter. To avoid further strife related to my participation, Duncan conscripts me on the spot, taking any vengeance that would be slated for me by the Templars out of the Equation. Cullen is at his usual guard post by the Apprentice dorms at morning bells as Duncan escorts me past to the stairs. I had my own quarters for only one night, and now I must gather my belongings and exit the tower forever. I have only time to slip my letter into Cullen’s gauntlet as we pass, and I do not know if Cullen will ever read my words. I hope if he does, he understands their full weight and cost.

The journey to the front at Ostagar is nearly a week’s hard march, and I have wept silently as we walked for most of the first two days. Duncan has proved himself a kind and gentle leader, and has not demanded I cease my tears. As they dry upon my cheeks now, he presses me for their cause. I tell him of my forbidden desire for a Templar, and of the guilt I feel for having betrayed my friend to the Chantry, even if it was due to his proven status of Malificar. As great stretches of the Kings road pass beneath our evenly plodding feet, I ask if Duncan would have conscripted and saved Jowan from himself if I had pressed harder. Duncan sets his strong, callused hand upon my shoulder. “Tethys,” he tells me, “it is no saving grace to be a Warden conscript. We all must face the Joining, and not all survive. I expect you will, because your will is unreasonably strong. With as weak a will as you describe Jowan, however, I would be only have been conscripting him to a swift and painful death. You did everything within your power to save both of them from themselves. We can only save ourselves from ourselves, for our own hearts and desires are our greatest dangers. Of course, that coin has two sides and our hearts, our loves can also become our greatest strengths.”  
Duncan’s eyes hold such conviction and his words such quiet power that I know in this moment I would follow him into the maw of a Dragon if he bade me come. No more tears fall from my eyes on the march to Ostagar. Though as I sleep this night, I find myself fully upon the outermost broken islands of the Fade, looking inward to the Black City. Behind me, I hear weeping so deep and forlorn that demons and fade spirits appear to be seeking its source. I follow it from one broken, twisted island to the next, until I spy the gates of the Tower. It appears much the same in the Fade as is does in the world of flesh. Outside its walls, however, a battle between fade spirits and demons rages. The spirits draw heavily upon the shimmering mists of power that I must assume are the Fade presence of the Tower’s many-leveled wards. The walls of the structure are at every level transected by countless of the glowing spheres of individual dreams. Most of these exist only in the dark nothingness between and beyond the broken islands of the outer Fade. I cannot explain why the Tower structure exists this way within the Fade, but I resolve that another night I will work to understand how I have come here so fully, and whether there are more structures with such presence and energy transcending Fade and flesh realms. 

Just now, however, the weeping has grown loud enough, intense enough that my essence vibrates with it, and I can sense its source in the vibration of one of the dreams transecting the Tower wall. I will my essence inside the shimmering sphere, and leap. If my heart beat within the firmament of the Fade, it would have done so twice as I float above and out of reach of the seething mass of battle below. The sphere of light accepts me without resistance, and my feet touch down again upon the floor tiles of what were briefly my mage’s quarters. Upon the bed that was mine for only one night, a Templar sits in shining armor, his face in his gauntleted hands. He does not wear the faceless, imposing helm of his order over his golden curls, but they seem muted and drab compared to the shimmering of his plate mail. A letter sits before him, and he reaches one hand down to trace the letters. “Cullen,” I whisper, “why do you weep?” 

He looks to me with wide, forlorn, azure eyes, “Because I have sent you to your death for want of your touch,” he responds, the stark grief in his voice dampening the light and shading the very colors of his dream.

I know this to be a dream, his dream, though he is more fully in the Fade than he should be. “I am alive, Cullen. I am well, and it was out of love and respect for your vows that I left the Tower. You and I have stepped aside from the fatal flame in the name of duty once, but I’m unsure if I could do it again. As long as you stay your path, live your duty then my leaving has served the Maker, as must we all.” I cross the chamber and sit upon the bed next to him, pulling him to me and cradling his head upon my breast.  
“But you are gone, and I am lost.” He shakes with sobs he would never indulge in the flesh.

“You are not lost, my Cullen,” I whisper in his ear as I hold him close, “you are here, in my heart, just as I hope I am ever in yours, urging you always to be stronger, better, braver.”

His tears dry and he is pressing his lips to mine in moments. As we are but meeting in the Fade, it’s the work of a thought to be pressed together without the barrier of clothing or armor between us. Cullen’s palms, sword-calloused even in his fade projection, are like warm, gentle lightning bolts, traveling along my being, cupping my breasts, lifting me bodily atop him on what should have been my bed. Every touch sends cascading shocks through my entire being, awakening senses I never even knew I had before this moment. My hands, and my lips, are every bit as hungry as his. I touch him everywhere, kiss him everywhere. I take that most male part of him into my mouth, and taste it from root to tip, savoring the groan of ecstasy that it elicits from deep in his chest. I had read about this maneuver in an old Tevinter treatise on esoteric ritual magics. It is gratifying to feel how it solidifies not just his shaft, but his whole being here in the Fade.

I have little time to revel in that triumph, however, as Cullen’s hands tighten on my waist, and he drags me up his body to press his lips to mine. One of those sure hands finds its way between my legs, softly caressing, opening my nethers like the soft petals of a flower. I squirm and gasp, and he rolls me to my back on the mattress, slipping down to replace his fingers with his tongue. It is a kiss so intimate that I feel all control slip away, replaced by only hunger and desire. My fingers tangle in Cullen’s tight, blond curls, and my hips arch up, inviting him in.

I feel Cullen’s will like a warm, enveloping caress, and submit entirely. One sword-callused finger slips inside me as his mouth continues to caress the flower of my womanhood. My body clenches around that finger, as though I could hold him inside me forever, but he wiggles the tip as he suckles the aroused nub at the apex of my thighs, and I feel myself release and spasm, my whole being becoming sensitized, yielding clay.

Cullen slips up beside me, and I taste the sweet incense of my essence blended with the sharp steel of his within our kiss. He lifts me astride him as I slowly regain my senses. His twitching arousal pushes at the gates of my femininity, and I reach with both hands to guide it inside.

A tingling ache begins in my core, begging me move along his shaft to ease it. I grind my hips, up and back in a steady rhythm, and soon Cullen is moving with me. Each motion holds more pleasure than the last, and being the Fade and not the actual Tower, I do not hold back my ecstatic cries. We msurge together like this, staring deeply into one another’s eyes, for what seems eternity before my body again clutches him deep within me, and I feel the tremor of release ripple from my core to the spasming petals of my womanhood. Simultaneously, he thrusts up hard and sustained, fluid warmth filling a previously unknown void within me. The spasms of my body milk all of this warmth from his shaft, and the tumescence softens within me, the feel of it slipping away pushing me over the edge into ecstatic spasms once more.

We lay together for a time, reveling in the sensation of shared essences. We remain wrapped tightly in one another’s arms as Cullen and the trappings of his dream fade slowly into translucency. “Cullen,” I whisper “I would never ask you to break a vow for me. Know that for the truth. Know also that I will forever bear you in my heart.”

He reaches up and lays his fading hand upon my cheek, whispering my name.

“Good bye, my dear one,” we sigh, almost in unison. I step from his dream, knowing that we will not seek one another again in the Fade. Having felt his soul, I know it is safe from guilt and pain, for I took them from him in his release. I bear these emotions away from the tower, hiding them along with my own guilt and pain within my own tenuous dreamscape at the edge of the fade. For the first time since leaving the tower in the flesh, my heart is unburdened, and I wake Duncan for the morning’s march with the first true smile I have worn since we met.

With my spirits bolstered, Duncan spends the next few days of the long march telling me of the other Grey Wardens and recruits I am likely to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with in Battle. The tower was the first and last stop on a long round of very active recruiting, as Duncan is quite convinced that we face a true blight. 

“Six months ago,” Duncan tells me, “I visited Kinloch hold to search among the young mages and Templar recruits, and I found a promising one of each, though only one of them survived to become a Grey Warden.” Duncan lapses into a long, brooding silence befor telling me how he was drawn by nagging dreams to the Brecilian Forest and found a young Dalish maid, Mahariel, who had just recovered consciousness after receiving what should have been an instantly lethal dose of the darkspawn taint. Mahariel had relatively few symptoms of the blight sickness, but there is no true cure for the disease, so she joined with Duncan and his two recruits to use the last of her life in effort to eliminate the Darkspawn threat.

“There is a joining ritual,” he tells me, “kept secret for many very good reasons.” Duncan and warden recruit Mahariel traveled to Denerim to complete the ritual, and to alert both the King, and the Grey Warden order to the potential of a blight. Duncan went to speak to a friend in the Alienage while there, and conscripted an elven girl of clan Tabris, who despite a complete lack of formal training, was a savant of the blade. Apparently she had slain noblemen who kidnapped her on her wedding day, raped her cousin, and attempted the same with her before she struck them down. She joined gladly to escape the sentence of half-hanging, drawing, and quartering. She, Alistair, Mahariel, and the other recruit from the tower, Surana underwent the joining there in Denerim. Surana did not survive. Duncan took young Alistair with him, and sent the others of the order to Ostagar to begin training for battle. On the way out of the city, a young street-rat, Daveth, picked Duncan’s pocket. Impressed by the lad’s skill, Duncan chased him down, and conscripted him when he was actually caught by the City Watch. 

The whole of the order traveled together, dragging their new recruit in tow, all the way to Lothering along the King’s Road. Duncan smiled when he talked of those weeks with all the members of his order. At Lothering, Duncan separated from the bulk of his seasoned me, leaving Daveth in their care for training in how to play well with others. Duncan took only Alistair, Mahariel, and Tabris to his next stop in Redcliffe. There, the Arl set forth tourneys to showcase the great talents and feats of strength of which his guardsmen were capable. One young knight caught Duncan’s notice, and he sent Ser Jory on to Ostagar with Mahariel as escort, in hopes that time in the company of a Dalish elf might broaden his very narrow views of the world, since the order recruits from every race and caste.

“There is none fiercer in battle with darkspawn, and few more experienced than a Dwarf of the Warrior Caste,” Duncan said to me in tones of deep respect, as he told me of venturing to Orzammar. There he had the dubious fortune to see a casteless dwarf win the Proving held in his honor. “The Dwarves take their own rigid social structure more seriously than even we with our divisions between nobles, common crofters, and the elves who subsist little above slaves,” he explains at the confused look on my face. “The casteless dwarf would be lower in Orzammar’s society than the most wretched of beggars in the worst Alienage, for him to even walk upon the ground in the Proving Arena was an insult to every citizen of Orzammar.” 

I nod my head in understanding. “He won, though,” I ponder aloud in Duncan’s pause, “how did the dwarves react?”

“They sentenced him to immediate execution,” Duncan tells me, with a grin for my sudden gasp of horror. “Of course, I intervened with conscription.” I heave a sigh of relief so great that I nearly fall over, and Duncan almost laughs at how caught up in his tale I have become. “I conscripted young Brosca, as well as King Aeducan’s middle son, a tragic story that.” Duncan tells of how the eldest son was murdered and the middle son accused of the crime, yet unable to protest his innocence for the only witnesses who might have been able to provide alibi were casteless criminals. “I sent the Dwarves on to Ostagar with Alistair, knowing they only needed his escort for reassurance they would not fall up into the sky. Dwarves really have outlandish ideas about the surface.”  
We both laugh for a time about the idea of falling up. In fact, we are both still snickering as we make camp for the night between Lothering and Ostagar. We fall wordlessly into the routine of setting up camp. I construct tents and unfurl bedrolls as Duncan gathers material for a fire. I light it with extremely rudimentary Primal training techniques, and set about making a hot stew of our dry rations and a few herbs and wild mushrooms I had foraged near the road as we walked. While I concentrate on keeping the pot hovering the right distance from the flames and stir the bubbling liquid, Duncan tells me the sobering tale of the Couslands of Highever. 

Arl Rendon Howe declared war upon his neighboring Arling in the middle of the night, just after the main force of Highever’s troops set off on their march to Ostagar. “Tabris was able to save most of the household staff after she alerted me of the late night raid, and she took three arrows to the shoulder and back trying to save the Arl and Arlessa. Unfortunately, she was too late to save the Arl from the mortal wound to his gut, and could no longer draw a bow by the time the youngest son and I reached her. She wanted to stay and fight Howe’s men with a blade, but the formidable Arlessa Cousland stared her straight in the eyes and ordered her to protect her sons, to make the Arlessa’s death mean something. As much as Tabris hated nobles, I saw the respect in her eyes for the fearless shieldmaiden.” 

Duncan pauses and swallows a few times, and I see the unshed tears sparkle in his eyes for a moment before he continues. “I sent Tabris and Cousland straight to Ostagar after I bound her wounds. Most of the Circle’s healers are at the front, but I couldn’t recruit from those already engaged in battle. I needed a young mage, one not entirely set in the ways of Circle and Chantry doctrine. I think Surana had spent too many years cowed by the Templars and suborned by the Senior Enchanters, she had forgotten how to fight for her freedom and the Joining took her life.” Duncan shakes himself from his somber reverie.

“That brings me to meeting you and revealing too many of our secrets too soon,” he grimaces at me, a wry twist to his lips made all the more so by the scruffiness of his beard.

I smile back, genuinely. “I will not disappoint, Warden Commander,” I say with near comical solemnity, “since it’s my headstrong willfulness you were after to begin with, it’s when I try to follow all the rules and submit to authority that things go awry.”  
Duncan laughs and I bring the pot to sit beside the fire rather than hover over it, using some rudimentary Primal magic to chill the spoon and bring the boiling stew to a temperature safe for eating. I spoon up a small bowl for myself and hand Duncan a spoon and the pot. He devours the stew with singular determination while I savor my own bowl slowly. I congratulate myself on having actually picked things up from the Circle’s cooks during the many hours I was tasked with scrubbing pots without magic for some minor infraction or another during my early teens, not to mention the hours I slaved over potions under the watchful eyes of Senior Enchanter Uldred. Thinking about it, most of those hours spent in the Circle kitchens were for infractions in Alchemy. When I started the advanced Alchemy courses, the Senior Enchanter would offer to let me return during evening prayers for directed study to learn from my mistakes, but something about him made me uneasy to my very core. I found myself singing the Chant of Light under my breath from start to finish in every class after the second. I had a long discussion with Enchanter Justine about it, and my mentor made time to train me step-by-step in every potion required for mastery of Senior Enchanter Uldred’s courses, she was every bit as unnerved by him as I, but could not say anything due to his standing within the Circle. I smile, since even if I cannot return to see Justine or any of my friends, becoming a Warden means I will never again have to face Uldred’s steely glare.  
We reach the gates at Ostagar near mid-morning, and the king of Ferelden himself greets us. I knew vaguely of Maric Theirin’s death while I toiled as an apprentice in Kinloch hold. I knew by logical conclusion that since King Maric had but one son, Ferelden’s young king would be the boy I had saved from assassination in that vague pre-memory time before I went to Ferelden’s circle. Logic does not dampen the shocking spark of recognition when I gaze upon startlingly blue eyes and lustrous golden waves of hair. I would expect the weight of commanding an entire kingdom to sit heavier upon any shoulders. His Majesty, Cailan, seems far younger and more filled with the simple joy of living than his thirty years and weighty office should allow. Yet his confidence and sheer enthusiasm is inspiring, and I feel my own heart lift in speaking with him, not to mention the corners of my mouth in the most heartfelt smile I have had in the last several weeks. As with Duncan, I feel if Cailan asked it, I might follow him anywhere. I think this power of his charisma is exactly what spurred my younger self to the actions which brought the both of us whole and living to this moment of reunion. To my surprise, he makes no sign of recognition at my name, but there is a deep, knowing look in his eye. I follow suit of not acting on the force of my knowledge of our history, or the instant and undeniable spark of connection I feel as he takes my hand to welcome me formally to the battle.

The army camps are precisely what I would expect from my studies of historical wars during the middle years of apprenticeship. I am, however, surprised to feel so much magic pressing against my mind. I had been keenly aware of its absence since leaving the tower with Duncan, and to feel the living, thrumming flow of activated Lyrium and raw, channeled power brings me nearly to tears with relief at the realization that I am alive and not Tranquil, despite my recent actions.

Ritual sorcery is being maintained within the ruins of the ancient, Dwarven fortress by multiple casters. I can feel the near seamless exchange of essences as one leader trades to another, and several new mages take the place of others bowing out of the weave. The enormous power reserve raised thus inspires awe within me, and I feel myself wandering close without meaning to. I almost run over Senior Enchanter Wynn in my curiosity to explore the strange ritual weave. I recognize her right away as the head of the Creation school. I am completely unsurprised to see a healer of such impressive skill camped within the ranks of combatants. Warfare means casualties, which means healers are worth their weight in diamonds. We speak briefly of duty, philosophy and the importance of ending every Darkspawn we see. I am left with a sense of respect and admiration for Wynn. I leave the conversation wishing I had shown greater aptitude for her art early in my apprenticeship, so that I may have spent more time with her while still a member of Ferelden’s Circle.

Duncan had tasked me with finding the Warden, Alistair, who is to have charge of myself and one group of recruits up through our Joining. I find Daveth, a fast-talking cutpurse from Denerim, who remarks on my beauty and takes time to flirt with me, mage robes and all. I have to admit to being charmed by the street-rat, in no small part because the majority of the peasantry and citizenry we have passed in coming to Ostagar have walked wide of me and looked askance at my robes and lack of Templar guard. It is nice to just be a pretty face. 

Meeting Ser Jory ruins my pleasant mood. Jory gives me the double-take and makes a warding gesture even as I am greeting the company priestess and requesting the Maker’s blessings. Jory turns out to be one of those willfully ignorant citizens who just can’t get over his prejudice of my being. I remember Duncan’s words of yesterday, though, and know hope that Alistair and the other Wardens are more like Duncan and Daveth.


	4. Fate brings us together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW - explicitly sexual
> 
> The fates of certain individuals are irreversibly intertwined from the first time they meet. Important characters are introduced, and certain actions are taken which will have long-reaching and unforeseeable consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW - explicitly sexual
> 
> Explicit non-canon relationship scene will set particular challenges for the rest of the tale to come

After a full tour of the camps at Ostagar, I find a young Grey Warden, bearing a Templar shield and arguing with a Senior Enchanter. I recognize the robes, if not the mage himself. Unsurprising, since I am the newest Enchanter of the school of Spirit, and the ground ripples with the Primal fury barely leashed by the angry mage. I can feel irritation from the Grey Warden, but there is no fear in him. His bearing shows respect for the mage, though the set of his jaw betrays irritation visibly as well. The Enchanter gives a vicious tongue-lashing, to which the Warden responds with wry humor, offering to name one of his children after the mage, the grumpy one. I find I like this man already, and must stifle a giggle at the quip.  
The ill-tempered mage huffs away to speak to the Revered Mother, and I approach the Warden as he hangs and shakes his head. He heaves a great sigh, and tells me, “You know the good thing about a blight is how it brings everyone together.”  
“I know exactly what you mean,” I reply soothingly.

He looks up at me then, and I am stopped dead in my tracks by his beautiful, golden gaze. I can hardly find breath as I stare into Templar eyes that search my very soul.

“You’re not another mage, are you?” He asks with a guarded weariness.

“I am a mage, yes, and you must be Alistair?” I make a placating gesture as I ask.

“Ah, you must be Duncan’s newest recruit, I recognize you from your description,” he says with a brightening smile and a visible sigh of relief.

“Tethys,” I say, extending my hand in greeting, “pleased to meet you”

“Yes, that was the name,” he replies as he bows over my hand, pressing a brief kiss to the back in courtly fashion.

I find that I can barely think as he tells me that the verbal sparring I just witnessed is on account of the Revered Mother using Alistair, a former Templar, as her errand boy, and his acquiescing to the demand only because Duncan had ordered him to serve and attempt to keep peace.

“You were a Mage hunter?” I can’t help but ask as I regain my composure and sudden wariness drains the flustered flush from my cheeks.

“There is more to being a Templar, but yes,” he replies solemnly. 

We speak of chantry training, I probe as much as I dare about the Joining, and I finally tell him that it has been a pleasure and I look forward to traveling with him. He seems surprised by that, and pleased.

I consider being upset with myself, being that only mere days after having to heartbreakingly say goodbye to Cullen, I have shamelessly flirted with two men, and shared knowing gazes with a king. I dismiss the idea of being mad at myself, however, for what does it hurt to flirt with men when we may die tomorrow? At least each of us can die with a genuine smile. Cullen and I can never be, but drowning in sorrow for a forbidden love serves no one, least of all the Maker.

My smile remains as I make polite chatter with Alistair and he leads me back to the Grey Warden camp. We are the last to arrive, and Duncan immediately lays out the plan for tonight’s foray into the Korcari wilds to slay darkspawn and collect fresh blood. “Brosca, Aeducan, Cousland,” Duncan calls out. Two dwarves and a handsome young man with regal bearing step forward. “Mahariel will take you now. Return before dawn.” At Duncan’s words, a willowy young woman turns a markedly tattooed face to Alistair. I’m still pouring over markings the likes of which I have never before seen as her face contorts in a deeply smug grin. I cannot see the expression Alistair returns, but I hear his soft sigh of resignation as Mahariel salutes Duncan ad marches her men toward the gates. 

Alistair mutters under his breath just loud enough for me to hear “she’s laughing because I get Jory…” I place a comforting hand on his arm without thinking and listen as Duncan calls for Alistair’s full attention. In addition to the blood the other group was tasked with, we are to collect some ancient treaties in the crumbling ruins of a several-hundred-years-forgotten Grey Warden outpost. I mentally check off a list. Blood and treaties to collect, darkspawn to slay, men to help keep alive. All in a night’s work for a woman still searching for meaning in a life she no longer recognizes. I share a resigned grin with Alistair, and he puts a companionable hand on my shoulder as we march to the gates, following the other party of recruits into the night.  
As soon as Jory finishes whining about having to face Darkspawn, and Daveth completes an inventory of the horrors of the Wilds, I remind them all that Alistair is an experienced Warden, and will not let undue harm befall us, besides would we have even been chosen if we were raw recruits or wilting flowers? Daveth laughs at my quip. Jory has no discernable sense of humor, and only whines a little more about missing his wife in Highever. Alistair doesn’t react openly, but gives me a wink and a clap on the shoulder when the others are distracted. 

I would rather enjoy the hunting of darkspawn if the smell of them did not evoke half-forgotten nightmares about guardsmen and Templars being cut down and magic coming explosive and unbidden from within me. Even knowing that these are the echoes of memories of my journey to Kinloch hold, and that I obviously survived back then, does not erase the lingering unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach. All that seems to dull that ever-growing unease is killing every darkspawn we encounter. 

Alistair warns us as we approach a roving band of the vile creatures, and I quickly devise a baiting strategy. I run ahead, setting an explosion spell on a hideous gunlock. I had not used the spell since arriving to Kinloch hold, but I recall it the first moment I smell the darkspawn, and it comes in instinctive words and gestures as though I had practiced it every day for the last twelve years. As soon as it is cast, I use my talent for manipulating energies to form a shield about myself, drawing the fiends in closer until the afflicted one explodes. My comrades charge the field, mopping up any creatures that can still stand or crawl. As we leave no survivors, the roaming bands of Darkspawn do not seem to learn or anticipate my ruse when we repeat it again and again. With each Darkspawn felled, the unease in my gut gives way to determination and purpose.

Jory cannot stop whining. His pessimism is even beginning to affect the otherwise ever-buoyant Alistair. I have never been the life and joy of a group before, nor am I used to men grown past my years looking so to me for direction. I would have Alistair lead us, but he advises that this is not his role in our venture. He is assigned to observe and evaluate the recruits. Thus, leadership falls to me, for Jory is terrified of his own shadow and Daveth has no experience working with others. At least we are effective, and these men have respect for good sense, regardless of the mouth that issues it.

We find the old tower ruins that Duncan bade us search, alas the warded chest which should have lasted eternally is decayed and broken. I assume this has something to do with the corruption of the blight carried in every drop of darkspawn blood and spread by their very presence in an area. A woman prowls out of the depths of the ruins and demands to know our business. I can taste, smell, and feel the aura of her magic from yards away. It smells of hot blood and deep earth, and tastes of raw meat in my mouth. I attempt to display all the graces Justine spent ages drilling into me, but the feel of such foreign magic is off-putting. Daveth exclaims that she is a Witch of the Wilds, and I believe it. She tells us, however, that her mother holds our treaties, and so I instill courage in my fellows, and we follow the apostate deeper into the wilds.

I recognize cunning and brilliance when I see it, and this Morrigan, for that is the apostate’s name, has both in quantity. Her mother may have once possessed the same, but the ancient crone has lost all ability at reason somewhere in her untold years. She does, indeed, have our treaties, for which I am eminently grateful. The reek of the crone’s aura is nearly overpowering, and its feel, like brittle metal and gnarled thorns sets my teeth on edge. Her magic is massive and ancient, and I feel if I stay too close to her for too long, the sensations of her power would drive me as mad as the old woman. My heart bleeds in pity for her plight. Such magic as hers prolongs a life, but is no doubt also the source of her madness. I pray silently to the Maker, that he does not intend such a fate for me.

After leaving the Crone’s presence, the wild, furry, animal warmth of Morrigan’s aura seems almost a comfort, and I find it no longer raises my hackles. Her aid in guiding us swiftly and surely back to camp is much appreciated. Morrigan’s crone mother may be an abomination, but Morrigan is obviously not. This gives me pause, as she is several years my elder and shows no sign that her control of her massive power is anything less than perfect. Would I have grown up as sure, cunning and competent as she had I not revealed myself and continued to train as an apostate? Are there other apostates living so freely, without being tethered by Templars holding their phylactery? Could Jowan learn the control and will that Morrigan seems to surely possess now that he has fled without leash into the wide world, or will he continue as weak-willed as I knew him? I hold so many questions and so few answers as we walk back to Duncan’s fire.

So lost in thought am I that Alistair must reach out and take my shoulder to keep me from continuing right into the fire. There is a shock that travels through my body at that touch, and a thrilling shiver that courses down my spine. All thoughts of Morrigan and her insane mother are wiped from my mind, and I reel in confusion at my body’s strange reaction to my companion. I almost miss Duncan’s question of whether our quest has been successful.

“Not that it was easy,” I hear myself saying, eyes canted at Jory, “but yes.” I regret my words as I look past the fire to the three recruits bearing a badly injured Mahariel to the mages encampment. I survey my crew, blood-covered but whole, and say a grateful prayer to the maker under my breath.

Alistair and Duncan begin discussing the details, and I am so busy studying the way Alistair talks, emphasizing points with his hands and verbally painting all the details in prettier hues, that it takes me a moment to realize he has left the mad woman and her Apostate daughter out. I remind him, and Duncan actually gives Alistair a lecture about not being blinded by dogma, and taking all help when he mentions the two women are apostates. I look at Duncan with new eyes after that, but I simultaneously get distracted by Alistair’s blush and stammered apology. What is wrong with me? Is my heart so inconstant? Has my transgression with Cullen in the Fade damaged me in some way? I bear down my will and drag my eyes away from Alistair. Duncan advises that the Joining will take some time yet to prepare, so we are encouraged to write to loved ones, say prayers, meditate, sleep, whatever we feel necessary for the ordeal to come, but we are to meet at the ruined temple at daybreak to undergo the Joining.

I take the opportunity to wander the camp alone in the pre-dawn stillness and collect my thoughts. The snores of a hundred-thousand men are a comforting cacophony. I am amused to realize that the snores of Mages are no different than the snores of Knights. Raised voices draw me to the Royal encampment. I can recognize His Majesty Cailan’s smooth confident tones raised in opposition to a voice the equivalent of hard-worn saddle leather and drawn steel. I cannot make out words until I am close upon the tents, at which point I see His Majesty throw aside the flaps of a large, dark tent and storm out, flashing yellow lamplight into the moonless darkness, and destroying my night vision. “Don’t be a fool, Cailan!” I hear the leather and steel voice boom into the night as the tent flaps fall together, cutting off all light and rendering me momentarily blind. 

I hear two metal-plate-clanking footfalls, and I step to the side, hopefully out of the path of the angry King. A heartbeat later, large, steel clad arms wrap around me, and I lose my footing. “I… I am sorry… Your… Your Majesty,” I gasp and stammer, “I didn’t mean to intrude. I heard raised voices and thought there may be some trouble…”

“Don’t fret, Tethys,” His Majesty Cailan chuckles, as he presses me more fully against the gilded steel of his breastplate. He places a leather and steel clad finger against my lips with extreme gentleness. “You’ve only stumbled on an old man’s constant complaint that I’m not my father.” The metal plates shift uncomfortably against my chest as His Majesty heaves a great sigh and partially deflates. “Come with me, I need your company and the counsel of unbiased lips.”

I have no opportunity to decline, not that a new-minted mage or raw Warden recruit would dare decline a King. His Majesty clasps my elbow in his sure grip and guides me over the path to his command tent. My eyes once again grow accustomed to the moonless gloom, and I pick my way quickly and deftly alongside the King. Being a small, slight creature, I am all but invisible in the King’s shadow as he nods to his guard and tosses back the flaps of the tent. The Guard snaps a salute of hand to chest, keeping his eyes upon the darkness.

“I fear I can offer you little council, my King,” I demure, even as I see my bloodstained robes for the first time in the lamplight. “As I am fresh from a scouting trip, and covered in the remains of a half-hundred darkspawn, I fear I’m also not dressed to provide company.” I hang my head, gazing at my toes, and squirming within my filthy robes. 

The King laughs. Great gales of guffawing mirth fill the air within the tent. “Never has a beautiful woman given me such perfect excuse to disrobe her!” His Majesty exclaims as he continues to chuckle. “And never have I wanted so very much to take an excuse,” he murmurs softly as he takes me gently by the hand, tugging me deeper into the tent. “Come,” he commands, “a bath was already drawn for me, and I demand that you avail yourself.” I feel his gauntleted hand under my chin, as he gently lifts my face to meet his shining, familiar blue eyes, “and by all means, Tethys, look me in the eyes tonight and call me Cailan, or even pretty golden boy as you did when we first met?”

There is a smoldering at the back of his blue gaze I do not quite understand. I am as a rabbit in the gaze of a mabari, trembling and unsure where to hop. Cailan stands away from me and strips off his gauntlets. Their thud against the thick carpets of the tent is more the feel of disrupted air than sound. “Tethys, please,” the phrase is imploring, but the tone commands, “this armor is not meant to be removed by its wearer, and I would rather not summon my guard.” 

I feel myself moving shyly toward His Majesty, and I fumble clumsily at the first buckle before summoning my will back to me and focusing on the task of the buckles to the exclusion of the scent and presence of the man. In short order, I have released the King from his plates, and we settle them upon the armoring stand. 

I stay turned from His Majesty a moment, adjusting the pauldrons to perfect their balance and prevent the whole suit toppling noisily to the carpets. I turn to see him standing back up from setting his arming tunic on a nearby table. His broad, naked chest tanned and glistening in the lamp light. I recognize the heat spiraling within my own belly, even as I feel my breasts tighten, and breath catch. His majesty is beautiful, with a power and grace in every movement that makes me blatantly aware of my own dishevelment. 

I drop my gaze to the ground, my cheeks blazing in embarrassment. 

“No, Tethys, no,” His Majesty’s whisper is all too near, and his bare, sword-callused hand settles gently beneath my chin, lifting my gaze to his sparkling cerulean pools. “I am just a man in this moment, and I have promised to help a beautiful woman to remove the stains of battle so that she will speak with me. Now, I have always been fascinated by these robes. How do you remove them when they have no toggles or laces?”

Disarmed by his boyish curiosity, I smile. “You must be a Mage to wear them, Your Ma… Cailan.” 

He nods in approval at my use of his given name, and I feel my heart flutter at the intimacy of his name upon my lips. Something intensely familiar is sparked by his nearness, as though I have been this close, this intimate with him many times before.  
“And therefore, you must also be a mage to remove them.” I continue after the pause of savoring his name. I whisper a brief incantation, and make a ritual gesture, summoning my will to be free of the garment. My robe parts from neckline to hem, falling open to reveal the creamy expanse of my smooth, unblemished skin. His Majesty’s gaze is like a smoldering brush, palpable against my flesh as it moves from the curve of my jaw to the peaks of my modest, upturned breasts, to the soft tuft of hair that is a fairly recent addition to my nethers.

“Remarkable,” he whispers, “and moreso what the feat reveals.” The strong, sure hands, guide my robe the rest of the way to the carpets, tracing prickles of sparkling excitement along my shoulders and arms, before catching my own hands as he guides me behind a partition at the rear of the tent. I marvel at the large, lacquered wooden tub half-filled with steaming water.

“What is the point of being King, if it doesn’t afford you the simple pleasures?” Cailan asks rhetorically in answer to my impressed gaze. 

“I’ve been wanting to do this for years now,” he murmurs, even as he lifts me bodily and sets me in the water.

I sink down gratefully, submerging completely for a moment. As I return to the surface, I see Cailan step into the foot of the tub, with a cake of soap and a soft cloth in hand. “Wash my back, and I’ll wash yours,” he commands, turning and sitting before me. I find myself complying without thought, rubbing the soap to a lather and caressing every glorious inch of that well-muscled back. I’m not certain when it becomes less and act of service and more one of heated exploration, but my mouth eventually goes dry and I find I am thinking decidedly unchaste thoughts about my bath companion. 

Cailan’s groan of pleasure brings me back to the moment, and I freeze in startled embarrassment as I find I am pressed bodily against his back, my hands lathering his thighs and inching toward his manhood. 

“You were not scouting long to have slain fifty Darkspawn,” Cailan murmurs, placing his hands over mine and gently coaxing them to keep moving.

“I am a mage,” I remind him, “I need not fight them in single combat, and exploding an entire band at once is much more efficient.” 

“I should remember you can do that,” His smile is gentle as he looks at me over his shoulder. “After all, I have seen you do it before at least twice.”

“Twice?” I ask him softly, a hitch in my heartbeat as he lifts my hands slips the washcloth from my fingers.

The king is silent and contemplative as he stands and steps from the tub. Feeling slightly unnerved, I concentrate on lathering and rinsing my face and hair before trying to meet his gaze.

He is smiling down at me when I look up.

“Two bands of marauding darkspawn between Jader and Lake Calenhad, not to mention the assassins in Kirkwall’s chantry square, and you were only six at the time. You do know you’re a remarkable woman?” he asks rhetorically, then commands. “Slide forward, I have a promise to keep.”

I obey, and am surprised to feel elated and excited as he slips into the water behind me. He reaches around me with both arms, plucking the cake of soap from my hands. Holding me so, legs and arms about me, he forms a lather with the soap, and sets the cake on a table nearby. True to his word, Cailan lathers my back. 

“I truly encountered Darkspawn when I was six?” I ask lamely, then moan in pleasure at the feel of his strong hands massaging my shoulders and lower back. I find my words only intermittently as I revel in the sensation. “I have no real memory… only some vague… nightmares…”

“From your blush earlier, I think you at least remember the assassins?” His gentle, probing question is a purr in my ear.

“A letter from my mother,” I sigh, relaxing against Cailan’s chest, “written the day I sailed for Ferelden and delivered to me in the Circle some six years later.”

“You still have the letter then?” He asks softly, “I knew it would be taken if I gave it to you right away. It took several years to find a Templar desperate enough to bend his vows enough to loan me his armor and let me slip into Kinloch to see you.”

“It was you,” I whisper, the realization of why being so near, so intimate was familiar sending ripples of excitement through my blood, “it’s always been you.” I lose my words and can only moan, as his soap-lathered hands have begun to massage my breasts. The reality of my body awakening to desire is more intense even than my projection of the same in the Fade. Cailan’s hands are masterful as they explore the contours of my torso, and lather my legs slowly from knee to thigh. 

“I knew from the moment you lept into my arms as a child in Kirkwall that I would need to keep you close to me,” he whispers as he places one finger across my lips. The other hand quests under the water, finding the fine nest of hair at the apex of my thighs. “It was only after you began to grow into a woman that I began to understand just how close I needed you.”

His voice in my ear is a soft growl of pent up need as he presses a kiss to that tender flesh. I moan throatily at the heat of his body holding mine, the confidence of the pressure of his fingers at the apex of my thighs.

“It is wisest not to wake the camp,” He whispers in my ear, even as a questing finger enters me beneath the water. 

As in the Fade, I gasp sharply as the petals of my womanhood snap closed like a bud, holding him within me. He groans in excitement, and I can feel his member stiffen and rise out of the water against my back. He suckles and nips at my earlobe even as he begins to move the hand within me rhythmically.

It is but heartbeats before my body shudders, and I feel a warmth grow in my belly and leak from my nethers. My womanhood flutters around Cailan’s finger even as it did in the Fade around Cullen’s.

“I can’t wait any longer for you, Tethys, I will have you,” His Majesty whispers in my ear as his hand pulls from inside me. Cailan stands and lifts me bodily up beside him. Snagging a bucket on the way and unceremoniously dousing us both with clean water.  
He steps from the tub, lifting me by my waist and commanding me to wrap my legs around his. He grabs a large, rough-spun drying cloth and throws it about us as he steps to his sleeping pallet. My extra weight does not seem to impede him, so powerfully built is my King.

Cailan lays me upon my back on the furs, looking down at me as he slides his shaft along the warm slit of my womanhood. I gasp and tremble, reaching out toward him with my arms. He leans down and captures my mouth with his. I feel my body willingly submit, and his tongue thrusts within my mouth, dancing with my own.

The burning brand of his manhood presses against me, and I reach down to spread myself and guide it inside. It goes only a little way, and stops. I feel a tugging inside myself, a barrier forbidding entry. As Cullen had done with his mouth in the fade, I tease the flower of my womanhood with my hand, willing it to open, feeling my whole being yield to Cailan’s will, Cailan’s desire, yearning to allow him complete entry. It is still not enough, and in frustration I groan and twitch my hips upward, demanding release.  
“You’ve never been with a man?” Hiss voice catches as he asks the question already answered.

His smile broadens as he withdraws his manhood. I look at him in shock, a feeling of being bereft causing my lips to tremble.

“Do you no longer desire me?” I whisper, feeling unbidden tears prickle the backs of my eyes.

“On the contrary, sweet Tethys, I only want you more.”

Cailan presses me to my back and lifts my knees to his shoulders. Blood rushes to my head and I feel slightly giddy as powerful hands grip my waist and confident, experienced lips and tongue kiss deeply between my legs.

One hand releases from my waist as he takes in a deep breath, lifting his head to say “you are indeed sweet, my Tethys,” before slowly and skillfully destroying any will my body might have to resist him. First one finger, then two enter between my thighs while lips, which feel as though they were forged precisely for lovemaking, suckle and kiss the tight nub of sensation that ignites my core further with every motion.

When I have had to bite my own fist thrice to avoid screaming out my ecstatic release, Cailan sinks to the furs beside me, slipping my knees from his shoulders, and captures my mouth.

I can taste new sweetness upon his lips, and know this to be the flavor of my own passion, my own release.

“I have been yours since the moment you saved my life in Kirkwall,” he whispers, his breath tickling my ear. “It’s time you were mine, in every way.”

“Yes, oh yes,” I moan in a passion induced haze, wanting only his touch, this excitement, this pleasure to never end.

“Ask me nicely,” He commands, even as I feel his own desire crackle in the air, and his engorged member twitch against my thigh.

“Please, Cailan,” I whimper, my hips writhing, “Please make me yours. Take me. Take all of me.” 

He groans in pleasure as he rolls to his back. He lifts me up, cradling me upon his chest. I sit up and straddle his upright shaft. I guide it inside and drop, impaling myself upon his desire. There is pain, and I gasp, while tears fill my eyes. I place my hands on his broad, hot chest and bid him be still for a moment. His hands grip my waist tightly, holding me motionless against him. 

After a moment, the pain passes, and I begin to move. At first Cailan restrains my hips, forcing me into a rhythm of long, smooth strokes. The pain lessens and pleasure increases with every movement, and soon his hands release my waist to stroke and explore my curves. He sits up slightly to take first one breast and then the other into that amazing mouth. His tongue draws fiery circles around each nipple before he nips and suckles, causing me to writhe and thrust even harder. 

I ride him with wild abandon, grinding myself against him and intermittently holding still as my body clamps down and climax overcomes me once, twice, thrice more. He groans with pent need each time, his thick member pulsing and twitching within me.  
As I feel the clenching heralding a fouth, no fifth, release, Cailan bears me to my back and continues to thrust, hard and deep even as my body closes around his, begging it to stay deep inside. My hips grind up and up, and he covers my mouth with his own, swallowing my screams of ecstasy. With one great forward thrust of his mighty hips, and a groan from deep in his throat that I swallow in return, Cailan shatters my mind into a thousand sparkling motes of light, and liquid heat pours into me. Now he holds still and trembling while my body spasms wildly about his, my womanhood milking every last drop of his essence from his shaft.

He breathes raggedly, and collapses to the pallet beside me, holding me tightly to his chest as his member recedes, causing my body to lose control once more. 

“My Tethys,” he whispers into my ear as sleep overcomes him.

I am too keyed up to sleep myself. I lay restlessly, wrapped within the gentle but steel-strong cage of the king’s arms, wondering who and what I have become. Am I so a slave to my desire that I cannot master myself in the few hours before a ritual that will forever change me? Then again, have I not been desiring this very intimacy with my not-Templar since the first time he walked with me in the gardens of Kinloch hold, telling me wild tales of pirates chasing us across the Waking Sea? Did I not unconsciously pledge my very life and liberty in service to this beautiful man when he was no older than I am now, and I a mere child?

Cailan turns in his sleep and releases me. I feel both bereft of his touch and exhilarated in my new state of belonging. I rise reluctantly as the camps stir and cocks near the cook tents crow the oncoming dawn.

I wash myself with the cake of softly scented soap and the remaining bucket of rinse water, then say a well-worn incantation to transfer the filth from my robe to the tub of water at my side. I slip into my now clean vestments and say the binding incantation that turns it from mere cloth to soul armor, snugly fitted and supporting of my body for all its movements.

I lean down and kiss Cailan’s relaxed cheek. “Yours until the day we die,” I whisper as I gaze at his sleeping form one last time before slipping out of the tent to keep the duty I swore to at my conscription. The haze of pre-dawn painting the eastern battlements sets my pulse racing, and I run through the encampment to the ruined temple in time to hear Jory whining yet again.


	5. The Duty That Cannot Be Foresworn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW
> 
> Joinings of a couple natures are in store for Tethys Amell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOT SAFE FOR WORK. - sexually explicit
> 
> As I may have noted, my head-canon always demanded that the other potential player character Warden archetypes existed and were recruited, but there was a specific reason that my player character was spared the front lines that all the others faced. I added the interaction with Cousalnd when I had to rewrite the whole piece after finally playing Dragon Age II and learning my favorite Warden Mage had canon backstory. It sets the stage for a piece that I've been working on in actual pen-and-paper format, but that's neither here-nor-there for this tale.

“My wife is in Highever with a baby on the way, and I may die in the joining,” Jory’s whining leads me the last yards to the ruins. “It is unfair, I have never before faced an enemy I could not defeat with my blade.”

“You may die, Ser Knight,” Daveth replies, “We may all die. Wouldn’t you give up your life to protect your pretty wife from the darkspawn.” He turns his hard gaze from Ser Jory, to stare into my eyes. “I would give up much more,” he adds as though speaking for my ears alone, “if I knew it would stop the Blight.”

My respect for Daveth grows. I want to say to them both that nobility is more a virtue of spirit than an accident of blood, but instead I hear myself stating simple agreement with my roguish companion.

Jory opens his mouth again to whine, and I cut him off, exclaiming that I seem to be the bravest here, and I a mere woman. He remains in petulant silence as the sky becomes painted with the red and gold streaks of dawn’s first light. I am not the last to arrive, and I feel only envy for the two dwarves and the young noble who had the great fortune to miss Ser Jory’s latest bout of whining. 

Duncan joins us, carrying a great silver chalice full of darkly swirling fluid. His sonorous voice intones the history of the joining, even as he crosses into and across the temple floor and warns us that there is no turning back. 

My mind is reeling at the thought that I will drink tainted blood and my will be pitted against Archdemon essence to master the taint as Alistair begins to speak.

“Join us brothers and sisters,” he intones mournfully, looking at his feet. “Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be foresworn,” he recites, gazing for a moment into the eyes of each recruit. “And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten.” He looks straight into my eyes and I can see the misery of his own remembered joining in the gaze. He swallows hard, placing a hand to his chest as he looks away to the darkly swirling liquid in the chalice, continuing “And that one day, we shall join you.”

My blood runs like ice in my veins, and I stand in horrified silence as Daveth is called forward, drinks of the darkness in the chalice, and falls. He writhes for mere moments and I see a blackness well from somewhere inside him. His eyes roll back in his head, and a blackness as opaque as a moonless and overcast night washes over the sightless stare. He falls still at my feet and breathes no more. Daveth’s body is barely still when Duncan calls Ser Jory to come forth.

Jory panics, unsheathes his greatsword and tries to cut his way clear of the temple ruins. Duncan puts him down, with a swift stroke of a hidden dagger, reminding us all “There is no turning back.”

Brosca, Aeducan, and Cousland each come as called, sip from the chalice and fall to their knees, panting and snarling. In turn, each collapses to the stone floor of the temple ruins, breathing but no longer conscious. I move forward when called, and drink all that is left. I vaguely hear the clang as the heavy silver goblet falls from my nerveless fingers to the stone tiles of the ruined temple. All is darkness, then fire. The rumbling whisper of a mulititude that is one echoes in my head, and I see wholesale slaughter and corruption of innocence viewed with a gleeful malice that is not my own. 

“NO!” I do not know if my enraged cry is voiced or simply within my mind, but I feel the warmth of Cullen’s will as it once encircled me, and the bright fire of Cailan’s love. I recall the wonder and joy upon first meeting with Alistair, and the comforting hand Duncan laid upon my shoulder. These sensations I know for mine, the pure and clean emotions are of me. The gleeful malice that would consume them is not of me.

“This is my domain,” I think to the presence locked inside myself with me, “I yield only when I choose, and I will not yield to you, to this.” It is a fierce battle, for the malicious will within the corruption is strong. I have the will of a King, a Templar, and two Wardens to aid mine, however. Together I, and those carry in my heart, overcome and master the taint, locking it into a small cage where it can be examined and understood at my leisure. Locking it away so holds no chance of overtaking me.  
My first sight upon opening my eyes again to the daylight, is care and concern in the depths of golden eyes. For a moment I think myself waking beside Cailan, but no, his eyes are blue. “Alistair?” I question, my voice a raw whisper.

“It is finished,” I hear from beside me, “Welcome.” I turn my head painfully and see the same deep concern in Duncan’s dark eyes.

“That was worse than the Harrowing,” I mutter. 

Alistair radiates sorrow as he surveys our two fallen comrades. Duncan assigns him burial duty, then helps me to my feet to greet the other three survivors of the joining. Duncan advises me that I have a short time to make myself ready, as the king has summoned he and myself to a meeting this afternoon. Cailan and I alone know why one of the newest Wardens would rate such an audience, but the secret shall not cross my lips. Brosca and Aeducan have the famed constitution of dwarves and rapidly take themselves off to toast the success of their joining. Cousland is the worst off of the survivors, and he leans heavily on me as I help him to the encampment of non-magical healers. “You look familiar,” he says to me, “do you have family I may have met?” 

“I don’t know,” I tell him sadly, “I have been in the Tower since I was six.” 

“You have a vague accent of the Marches,” he persists, “what is your name?”

“Tethys,” I say, intending to leave it there, but the words of my mother’s letter so carefully preserved and painstakingly delivered to me so that I would never forget them, “of House Amell.”

“I met a Leandra Amell once, she had very beautiful daughters,” he rambles as I help him find a cot and give the healer the last of my foraged elfroot.

“My mother had a cousin with that name,” I tell him gently, “but I never met her.”

“Perhaps when we’ve ended the blight, I can introduce you. Grey Wardens don’t spend much time with their families, but no one’s told me there are any rules against it…” Cousland is babbling as the healer tries to get him to drink a warm broth and rest.

“I would like that,” I say, “thank you. Now rest, we’ll need to fight darkspawn on the front lines again tonight.

We share a grim smile as I take my leave of my fellow Warden and race across the encampment to wash up once more before the meeting of the War Council. I am the last to the table at the time of the meeting, as I find I cannot locate my own soap and must beg Tabris for cleaning supplies. I begin to wonder if the scent of Darkspawn corruption is simply part of me now, but when I have scrubbed sufficiently, I find that it does dissipate. 

His Majesty Cailan and Teryn Logain are arguing at full volume over strategy as I approach. Cailan ends the argument by reminding the Teryn just who is King. He then lays out the battle plan for the generals and ranking commanders, then looks to me. Much colors the depths of his eyes. I recognize passion and desire still kindled, determination, excitement, and a fierce pride. Under all of that, though, I recognize worry and exhaustion. The unwavering confidence His Majesty shows the world has started to take its toll.

The key to the battle is a timed charge, and the signal is a beacon fire at the top of the Tower of Ishal, that Alistair and I are detailed to light. I know precisely why I am being kept out of the thick of the fray, despite my proven lethality, but I cannot help but wonder why Alistair ranks such reprieve. My skin crawls and my spine stiffens as Senior Enchanter Uldred voices objection to the plan, stating that a Circle Mage can light the beacon without pulling two Grey Wardens from the front. My king stares down the formidable mage and states his final word on the matter of Alistair’s and my duties on the field of battle tonight.  
I have little time to dwell on why Alistair is being deployed with me, as His Majesty dismisses the council and bids me to follow, murmuring about requisitioning me a rod of fire as the generals and commanders rush to make final preparation. He does not stop by the mage encampment, however, but goes straight back to his command tent, dismissing all inside and drawing me through to his personal quarters partitioned at the back.

I am about to ask what His Majesty needs of me, when he turns and drags me into his arms, claiming my mouth fiercely with his own. “You slipped away in the dark,” he accuses in husky tones as he breaks the kiss. 

“There is no turning back from the Joining,” I whisper, knowing that my eyes are haunted, hunted when I gaze into his. 

He lays gauntleted hands gently upon my cheeks and studies me. “You are… changed somehow, but all the more impressive for it.” He muses before claiming my mouth again, this time more gently. The kiss is long, sweet, and deep. He is the one to finally break it once more.

“I would feel your body once more before I face death tonight,” he whispers. “I would take the memory of ecstasy into battle so that I have all the more reason to live through it.”

“As would I,” I whisper against his lips, my hands already deftly unbelting his breast plate and cod piece. He strips off his gauntlets. His pauldrons and arming tunic follow, but I am too impatient to unbuckle and strip his grieves and breeches. I incant my release from my own robes and bear him to the sleeping furs, kneeling before him. I free his member from the laces it strains, and take it into my mouth. I gaze into his eyes while I swallow and suckle the sword of his manhood, until I see the dark glow of desire burn all other emotion away. 

Cailan wraps his massive hands about my waist and drags me onto his lap, his hot, bare chest pressing against my soft breasts, my legs wrapping about his waist. He lays siege to my mouth again, even as he sheathes his manhood completely within me. I moan against his lips, my hands clawing his back as I fight to be nearer, take him deeper within.

We buck with wild abandon, surging together like storm-wrought tides. We gaze into one another’s eyes and daren’t blink, daren’t look away until the sensation is too much, and we climax together, each muffling the other’s cry with our own mouths.  
Cailan falls to his back on the furs, smiling, and I unwrap my legs from his waist, bringing them down beside his hips while I sit astride him, his softening member still clutched within my body.

“Why are you keeping me off the front line?” I ask idly, exploring his powerful chest with my hands and shuddering in pleasure as his shaft twitches one last time inside me before slipping free.

“I think you know,” he rumbles languidly, reaching a hand up to caress my breasts. “You are mine, Tethys. You are mine and I will keep you safe, just like you did for me so long ago.” His eyes meet mine, a possessive glint in their depths.

I grin wickedly, sliding down to press my chest to his, and running my fingers through his long, fine, golden hair. “You know I am a fearsome mage, and I have fought off even demons of the fade who tried to possess me? What makes you think a mere man could?”

Cailan’s grin widens as his hands slide down my back to my hips. He holds my hips tightly, grinding his softened shaft against my tenderest, most secret place. I gasp and moan in surprised pleasure, my hips shifting of their own accord, trying to lure him back within me. My fingers slip from Cailan’s hair, grasping for desperate hold on his shoulders as my body writhes against his. “Because you want me to possess you,” he whispers, “and because I already do, don’t I?” 

It takes me a moment to collect my thoughts to agree, and when I open my mouth to do so, he claims it with a deep kiss. His arms shift to my shoulders and waist, binding me to him with bands of living steel. Captured so, I am powerless to resist when he rolls me to my back upon the sleeping furs.

Cailan breaks the kiss and slips his arms from under me, pressing his palms to the furs to either side of my shoulders. I am no less caged, but now he is able to raise his torso and look down upon me. “Admit it,” he commands, a grin of utter triumph curving his luscious lips.

I sigh as a sense of melancholy dampens the yearning flames of my desire. “I am yours,” I whisper, meeting his warm cerulean gaze with the pale, lavender fire of my own, “until the day we die, but I also carry the duty that cannot be foresworn. There is no place within the shining beacon of a great King’s court for a little shadow like me.” I feel tears prickle the backs of my eyes, even as I slip my hands up to caress the rugged, handsome planes of His Majesty’s jaw and cheeks. He turns his head to press a kiss into each palm, then looks back into my eyes and smiles, undeterred by the sorrow in mine. “I am King, Warden Amell, I will decide what should and should not have a place in my own court. But,” he chuckles as he climbs to his knees, then his feet, picking me up along the way, “we must get me ready for battle, and you must go keep Alistair from getting himself killed while climbing some stairs.”

There is some secret in the twinkle of his eyes as he says this last, but I cannot fathom it. I re-armor my King in silence. I only speak to recite the incantation to rerobe myself. Once again dressed, he cradles my face in his heavily gauntleted hands and presses one final kiss upon my yearning lips. 

Cailan breathes deeply once after breaking the kiss, and then tears himself away, pacing to a large chest and rummaging inside. “Take this,” he says, pressing a rod of fire into my hands, “timing will be of the essence, and I can’t risk flint and tinder taking a moment too long. Now, off with you, and I will expect you to return to me after we crush the darkspawn horde tonight.” He pats my posterior as he says it, urging me out to the final battle preparations. 

“Yes, my King,” I whisper as seductively as I know how, and salute with fist to chest before winking and rushing away. Cailan’s full-bellied laugh follows me out to the bustle of the camp, filling my heart with joy, and painting a confident smile on the face of every soldier within earshot. If the King is fearless enough to laugh before battle, what threat could there really be?

What threat indeed? My own joy fades as I recall the great desolation I witnessed in my visions during the joining. “What threat indeed…” echoes maliciously from the cage in my soul holding the essence of that very desolation.

I try not to think on this as I reach the Wardens’ encampment to arm myself for what is to come. The battle-harness for my war-staff is a bit tricky to belt into place by myself, but at least I had some practice each day on the march here. The harness is a work of absolute genius, containing not only a clever holster for the staff that allows it to be drawn and stowed quickly with a small gesture and incantation, but myriad pockets for scrolls, potions, and physical foci all at quick and easy reach of the wearer. I add to this a belt enchanted to enhance my speed while making me seem smaller and less important to my enemies, and the satchel containing food, water, bandages, and the few worldly possessions I can count as my own. After all, there is a small possibility of the camp being overrun tonight, and I have a distinct sense of revulsion at the idea of Darkspawn pawing through my things.


	6. Careful What You Wish For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW: Graphic violence
> 
> The battle of Ostagar leaves no one unscarred. A vow is kept at a terrible cost. Alistair is canon comic relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW: Graphic violence
> 
> Yes, the grueling slog up the Tower of Ishal is canon and anyone who has played the game has done it. It's a battle that makes the Warden, and one that has stuck with me from the very first play-through. Even though I know what's coming when I open that final door, I jump at the cut scene every time

As the sun sets over the battlements, Duncan gathers Alistair and I to him, finally explaining to Alistair that we are tasked with signal duty and not taking arms. Alistair is downright petulant, and Duncan must remind him that we all do as the King commands. 

“Fine, but if he orders me to wear a dress and dance the Remigold,” he quips, “I draw the line.”

“I would like to see that,” I laugh in response. I will blame the long, sleepless night and day for my lack of control, as the words are out before I can even think to stop them.

“Well for you, maybe,” Alistair says, pretending to consider, “but it has to be a pretty dress.”

I cannot stop the burst of laughter that forces its way out of me. Duncan rolls his eyes and sighs, but I see a fond smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “This is important, Alistair.” Duncan says softly.

My fellow warden immediately sobers, and we finish the mission briefing swiftly. “Duncan,” Alistair says hesitantly as we are turning toward our objective, “Maker watch over you.”

“Maker watch over us all,” Duncan says somberly, and I feel a pensive disquiet sneak into my soul. I fear this is the last I will ever see my commander, and I cannot bring myself to turn away.

“Come on, we should get to the tower,” Alistair says, his voice thick with emotions I cannot define. I still cannot turn away until he grasps my shoulder and turns me bodily to follow.

My feet drag the first few steps, but I hear the roaring cheer of the assembled armies, signaling that Cailan has just taken his place in the lines. I steel myself, for it is my duty to signal my king’s reinforcements. I must not fail him. “You’re right,” I say to Alistair, my spine straightening, “come on.”

We move across the camp at a brisk walk, and reach the great stone bridge arching across a chasm between east and west fortifications. Here we break into a sprint, for great balls of rock and flaming tar begin pelting us from the enemy horde’s siege towers. I can tell this is something the darkspawn have not done before by the surprised chatter, and the scramble of messengers along the lines obviously intent on relaying new strategy. I am bowled over twice by the force of nearby impacts as I race ahead of Alistair toward the tower. Each time, Alistair is at my side in less than a heartbeat, offering a steady hand to gather me back to my feet. 

As we reach the arching ruins surrounding the Tower of Ishal, which I figure were once a palace of great beauty, we are met by troops fleeing toward us. “The tower has fallen,” they pant, “We need reinforcements.”

“Fallen, how?” I demand in surprise.

“Lower chambers… darkspawn… must have tunneled in somehow.”

“We will drive them back,” I hear the command ringing in Alistair’s voice, and it bolsters my heart, “the King is counting on us to signal Logain’s charge.”

Two of the previously fleeing soldiers fall in behind Alistair and I, while the others run off to beg for reinforcements should we fail.

The battle within the tower grounds is sheer madness. Small bands of Darkspawn surround individual guards, trying to divide and overwhelm, even as genlock archers rush to overtake high vantage points to rain death down upon the remaining defenders. I will not have it.

I send my will forth, shielding a soldier even as I will the Hurlock in the middle of his besieging group into a living bomb. Pulling my staff from its carrying harness across my back, I command Alistair and the soldiers to draw their bows and fire upon the Darkspawn. Moments later the hurlock explodes, the shockwave liquefying the two genlock immediately to his sides. The wall I willed into place to protect the soldier falls, but he emerges unharmed from my blast and dispatches the remaining darkspawn as they struggle to regain their balance. I order Alistair and the soldiers to clear the genlock archers from the platforms above while I charge the next group of close-combatants to repeat my successful strategy. 

Again and again I do this, stopping only to catch my breath as the last of the lower courtyards is clear. Alistair is by my side in an instant, offering me a draught of sweet water and an elixir of elfroot if I have need. The water I accept, drinking deep before pushing it back into his hands with a wide grin and panted thanks. I decline the elixir, opting instead for one of the glowing vials of distilled spirits and lyrium tucked in a pocket of my battle-harness. I uncork the vial, knock back the contents, recork the vial, and stow it in a single sure move, and clap Alistair upon the shoulder. “Come, my lord,” I say with a wide, confident grin “we got all dressed for this ball, we should dance.” Alistair’s grin breaks into a throaty chuckle as he surveys my gore-covered robes and his own blood spattered armor. “Indeed we shall,” he bows mockingly but gracefully, picking a short string of genlock entrails from my hair as he straightens. “Allow me, my lady,” he says with humorous formality, extending an arm for me to take as though we were indeed about to dance the Remigold. I take his arm, laughing. Though a distinct thrill of excitement races up my spine, I ignore it. I am pledged to My king, after all, until the day we die.  
We race up the steps to what must have been tower gardens at one time, surprising two Genlock archers who had been taking aim at the shining metal of my armored contingent in the courtyard below. I will one to become an instrument of his own allies’ destruction, and rush the other, screaming an incantation. A hurlock charges us, but Alistair meets that charge with a strident thrust of his shield, and the two begin a frenzied exchange of sword-strikes. Still yards away from the second genlock, I swing my staff forward as one would a club, and release a spike of pure energy. My will made manifest, the energy cleaves through the chest of the genlock, just as he nocks an arrow to aim at me. The creature before me falls in time to the sound of the explosion across the field. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, refocusing my energy before I turn to survey the field.

The soldiers Alistair and I have gathered are brushing genlock entrails from faces and shoulders while Alistair swings his blade in a broad arc, cleanly severing the head of a creature I have never seen before. This thing is tall, with thin, gnarled limbs that end in clawed feet and hands shaped almost like scythes. The creature’s back seems covered in some variety of chitinous plates. The head smacks meatily to the ground and rolls almost to my toes, stopping on its side with the wide, lifeless black eyes staring directly at me. I feel an involuntary shudder rush through me. The planes of the face and the set of the eyes look almost elven, only hideously elongated to accommodate great sabre-like teeth in the upper jaw and tusks in the lower. It appears that Alistair’s sword work is on par with the greatest masters, he has managed to slice cleanly through the membrane that once connected chitinous head plates to those of the back, completely avoiding any of the actual plates. A fortuitous thing, I muse as I nudge the head with my toe, inspecting its anatomy. There are no less than a half-dozen steel arrowheads embedded in the plates of the creature’s head. I can see why the legends of darkspawn describe them as difficult to kill. “What was this thing?” I call across the field, while walking toward Alistair. The soldiers take a moment to drink restorative draughts and clean blood from their swords. 

Alistair picks his way clean of darkspawn remains and walks toward me, meeting me halfway. “That last beast was a shriek,” he tells me quietly. “They are stealthy creatures who act generally as scouts. It’s very rare to actually see them before they ambush and kill the unwary. If you are fortunate enough to survive the first attack, as their name suggests, they let out a blood-curdling shriek. It serves not only to alert others of their kind nearby, it can deafen and disorient their prey.”  
I shudder as we pass the crumpled body of the shriek, and I pull an elfroot concoction from another pocket in my battle-harness, offering it to Alistair. He thanks me solemnly and drinks the rejuvenating liquid in one swallow. We can hear the roars of assembled armies, punctuated by the heavy, echoing thunk of ballista bolts being sent across the fields at the enemy below. We have not felt any more ground-shaking impacts from the enemy siege engines, and a faint reddish glow on the far horizon gives me hope that our mages have called down fire upon those deadly devices.

I look over the assembled soldiers we have pulled from overwhelming odds so far, and I gaze up at the uncompromising height of the tower before us. Great iron and oak doors are half-closed at the top of a marble stair. From here I can see one of the splintered ends of a crossbar actually holding the doors ajar. A sense of foreboding settles about me, and I lift my voice to call to our assembled troops. “I do not know what we will find inside men, but we must reach the summit quickly and pray to the maker we are not already too late to summon reinforcements to the valley below. These will be tight corridors and narrow stairs. Alistair and I can take no more than two with us to move swift and sure up to the beacon. The rest of you must decide who will stay to defend these gates behind us, and who will run report to the generals of the breach at this tower.” A dozen steel-clad fists clap to a dozen steel-plated chests, and I feel shock radiate to my toes. I have just assumed command of a troop of the King’s legions. Both Cailan and Cullen would be proud, I think. 

“Who goes in?” I ask, and without hesitation the two guards we met first step forward. Alistair and I nod and salute them. The four of us march up the stair and I turn at the door, surveying my troops below once more. Raising my staff to the sky, I call out “For Ferelden!” My comrades beside me cheer, and the men below cry “The Wardens and Ferelden!”

Bolstered thus, I motion to the three men beside me, and they throw open the gates of the tower. I take the moment to gather my will. I feel I will need either a shield or a bomb mere seconds from now.

We step through the gates, my comrades clearing the remains of the crossbar so that our troops outside can actually secure them. All is quiet within, and I slip silently ahead to scout the main tower hall upon this floor. A score of torches create a haze of oily smoke within the great hall, the flickering, dancing shadows an impediment in themselves to any who would attempt to retake the tower. I can hear the shuffling of feet, and smell the reek of the Blight within. I close my eyes for a moment, feeling the room with my other senses. The oily feel of corrupted magic presses against my mind. There is a slinger of spells within. We met one of those in the Korcari wilds, Alistair old me they were called emissaries. The shuffling of feet reveals at least four disparate groups within the hall, so I will assume at least twenty one based on the patrol groups we encountered in the wilds.

I slip back into the antechamber and report this to Alistair. He is all for charging into the fray, and I must argue him down to lay a trap here and let me play bait to lure groups to us, evening the odds. He eventually agrees, though he tells me he did not care for that strategy in the wilds and likes it less now. “Have a little faith,” I whisper, reaching out to lay a hand upon his shoulder. He sighs and nods.

I slip into the smoke-hazed hall, finding the first group of darkspawn defenders by the sound of their growling argument. I reach out with my mind to feel the slimy, midden-heap feel of the tainted creature and focus my energy through my battle staff to a single, shimmering bolt of energy. “For Ferelden” I yell out as I aim and release the energy. I can see a tunnel appear through the smoke and the face of the Hurlock at the other end just as he is transfixed by my attack. It was enough to wound, not enough to kill, and his angry shout summons his band of 5 to charge me. I run back through the doorway to the antechamber, laughing triumphantly as my little band snaps a 2-man shield wall into place behind me. The third loads a crossbow and aims over the shields. Heartbeats later, a group of darkspawn slide to a halt before our shields, surprise evident even on their twisted, reptilian faces. The bolt leaves the crossbow with a twang by my ear, and the soldier immediately sets to reload, not even bothering to watch it pierce straight through the eye of the lead Hurlock, knocking him back and disrupting the lines of his cadre. I whisper the incantation, turning one Genlock into walking death, and pepper him with bolts of energy from my war-staff. The enraged darkspawn beat upon Alistair and the other soldier’s shield for a short time with no effect, and then the bespelled Genlock explodes. My skirmishing band ducks in close behind the shields, and the men all grin boyishly at me while bits of darkspawn spatter the shields and walls. Not one of the first group of foes is left standing, and we are unscathed. We hear an unnatural roar of anger, and rapid footfalls as the rest of the darkspawn guard on this floor gathers to charge.

I feel pressure on my mind, the other magic user seeking me out. I follow the line of his consciousness, incanting the bomb spell, and immediately follow it with my spell to shield. I am rewarded with distant shrieking, and the sensation of energy dissipating harmlessly about my shield. I figure the other magic user will find a counter spell before full effect of the bomb, but it will keep him distracted long enough to polish off the foot soldiers.

There is a bone-jarring thud as the enemy column charges our two-man wall. Of course, they cannot charge more than two deep through the corridor, and our line does not waver. The assembled line of darkspawn is a perfect formation for a living bomb. I incant, and call to my bowman to pin that one in place. I know as well as he, that he can’t possibly transfix the creature with a bolt that will pin it to the floor, so he shoots into the rear of the column, making escape difficult. I pepper my favored target with energy, catalyzing the coming blast. I can see the rage and terror in its eyes as the reaction begins. “Down!” I cry to my troops, and we fall behind the shields as yet another of our enemy explodes.

A second later, Alistair and the other shieldman are on their feet, wading through corpses to dispatch the three hurlock that survived the initial blast. “Take care!” I call as I follow, “the emissary still lives.” My words are confirmed seconds later, as I feel the press on my mind of the twisted, tainted power. “Move quickly!” I shout, even as I call up my shield. I am rewarded with a faint prickle of heat against my skin as the shield dissipates most of what would otherwise have been an impressive ball of fire. I can hear the howl of frustrated rage, and then the yelp of terror as my comrades set upon the distant creature. I am unable to act or call to them within my shields, and I must hold here until the last of the fearsome energy that had been focused against me dissipates. By the time I can move again, Alistair is wiping his sword clean upon the darkspawn mage’s rags. “I think we work well together,” he says to us all, a confident grin making him seem younger than my eighteen years for a moment.

I pull another vial of distilled lyrium from my battle-harness, and raise it in toast to Alistair’s words before gulping it down, and stowing the recapped vial for future use. The lyrium potions help, but I am feeling the fatigue far deeper than my comrades. Were time not so much of the essence, I feel I would let them take the brunt of the fighting for a bit.  
Time is of the essence, however, and I lead us forward, guiding us on with only a nod and a gesture, too tired at the moment to form words. Fortunately, the lyrium begins to take effect as we reach the corridor at the far end of the great hall. “More darkspawn to kill,” Alistair quips with a grin as we assemble behind the doors. I nod and close my eyes for a moment, expanding my senses to check for wards or other users of magic. “Yes,” I reply to Alistair after a moment, “but no more mages for now.” My own grin is a weak echo of the determined curve of his lips.

Floor upon floor the battle repeats. We are fortunate near the top of the tower to release a pack of caged Mabari. They make short work of the assembled darkspawn on the floor for us, baying and hunting out every last fiend. The necessary respite the dogs allow me feels almost beautiful. Crossing the corridors, I stumble over the corpse of a recently mauled Hurlock, and only Alistair’s lightning-fast reflex keeps me from sprawling upon the stones. “These darkspawn shouldn’t be here,” he whispers to me as he holds me close to his side, cradling me for a moment with his sword arm. 

I grin up at him tiredly. “Now weren’t you just complaining that we wouldn’t get to fight?” I ask. He stops still for a moment and turns to look at me as if for the first time. A true smile splits his face, and I feel energy and determination surge back into my weary bones. “You’re right,” he tells me, squeezing me just slightly before setting me free to walk on my own, “talk about a silver lining.” He marches to the doors closing off the next length of spiraling staircase, and turns at the top. “Come on, he bellows energetically, we must get to the top and signal. The King and Logain are counting on us!” Our two soldiers cheer, and I remind myself that once we have accomplished our objective I will learn their names so that I may commend them properly to Cailan. 

Alistair gives a mighty kick to the oaken planks, and the door rebounds wide for us. We surge up the spiraling stair without discussion, emerging in an empty smoke shrouded chamber “to the walls!” I command in a whisper, as I see shadowed figures in the smoke make motions like readying bows. The shadow is enough for me to feel the tainted life-force and craft it into a bomb, and with extra effort, I feel I can implant the command for that spell to infect any further life force it touches, setting the fuses for them to become bombs as well. I make the effort, and rush to the covering shields of my companions when my incantation is finished. My timing is perfect, as I am buffeted by a soldier’s shield receiving the crossbow bolt meant for my chest. Alistair raises a fist in the air and pulls it downward. Within a breath, the three soldiers have taken a knee, shields raised up, and myself dragged down beneath them. A dozen or more arrows bury themselves in the wood of the soldier’s shields or rebound with a sound like bells chiming from the steel of Alistair’s. 

Hideous screams begin in the corridor ahead, and I can hear grunts and snarls as the other darkspawn draw toward the one in agony from my spell. Alistair makes as though to rise, and I place my hand upon his shoulder, holding us in formation. I reach up and cover my ears, knowing that the open-faced helms of she soldiers will at least provide some protection for them. Alistair understands and nods, motioning to the others to hold here even as we feel the shockwave of the first blast. Alistair makes as though to rise again, and I place a hand upon his shoulder again, shaking my head. He looks at me in curiosity, and his eyes grow wide in surprise as we begin to hear agonized keening from the smoky haze ahead. The wait seems endless, but it is less than a minute for the boom of three more explosions. I keep my hand upon Alistair’s shoulder for one breath, two, three, and nod when I hear no further screams.

We rise in silence and move ahead swiftly as one. I retrieve yet another lyrium potion from my battle-harness, knowing I have very few left, and hoping this one will last me to the beacon.

We walk through a charnel house to the next stair. Bits of hurlock, genlock, and even a few chitinous plates of shriek are stuck to the walls along the whole of the corridor. Lumps of blackened and bubbling flesh are everywhere upon the ground. Even though Alistair has seen this same feat repeated countless times over the last few days, he looks at me in awe for a moment, and the two soldiers mutter prayers to Andraste. “Onward,” I command into the silence, secretly shocked myself at my capacity for carnage, but also enlivened for a moment and sobered.

As one we march through the door and swiftly up another set of spiraling steps. We burst through the door at the top and stop dead in our tracks for a second. The smell alone would reduce a strong man to tears and retching. The ferrous stench of pooled and congealing blood would be overpowering enough, but over it lies the reek of an uncountable number of emptied bowels, and that stink particular to abattoirs waiting removal of the offal. I can sense rather than see the steaming piles and hanging strands of human intestine that litter the room as if the creature that slew the garrison was decorating for a macabre party. Over it all rides a pall of putrescence and unwashed flesh. My eyes water and it takes all my years of training in control not to fall to my knees retching. An unearthly crunching sound forces our eyes up and up over the grey, festering hide of the back of a giant, humanoid beast. Huge, spiraling horns stretch out from the massive skull. It turns its head to face us, the body of a plate-clad knight slipping from its maw. It roars at us, gore spraying from between its jaws. Fetid breath and the reek of decaying meat blasts over me and in the moment of silence afterward, I hear one of my companions retch. 

For one beat of my heart, then two I stand trembling in the doorway, animal terror stealing my ability to move, speak or even think.

With my greatest effort of will yet, I shout “Move!” to the petrified and retching men behind me. 

“Scatter and use your bows,” my thoughts and commands begin to flow smoothly as the great beast lumbers to its feet. “If it charges you, run and do not stop!” I then raise my hands and make gestures with my incantation, staring straight at the beast. It charges toward me as my comrades shake off their own terror to follow my orders. 

My incantation is finished before the beast’s third stride, and I turn and race away, one hand clutching my staff and the other holding the hem of my robe up so that I don’t trip. Running in a broad circle with the creature's revolting breath hot on my back, I hear the rhythmic thunks of crossbows releasing and reloading as fast as a human can manage, and the faster and lighter snaps of a longbow. The monster behind me grunts and roars. I can feel a painful stitch in my side, and know that I will soon slow. To slow will mean joining the piles of offal festooning the room, so I push myself harder, faster. 

My lungs burn with the effort of the sustained sprint, and I know I will falter. With the last of my breath, I begin an incantation for my spirit shield, turning to face my doom defiantly as I cast. My shield wraps about me, as strong as my will can make it. The beast lowers its body like a bull druffalo, scraping its foot against the ground before it charges. I stand motionless within the shield, my will pouring into the image of a strong, solid dome surrounding me, protecting me even from this nightmare creature.

A cheer erupts in unison from my three companions as the charge is halted and the beast rebounds from my shield. It is such a great foe, however, that I feel the impact of that charge as a crushing pain through my skull. The shield wavers with my concentration, but holds. I will not long survive, and although I can see that the painful reactions of my bomb spell have weakened the creature, it was just too great an amount of blood to catalyze. The creature survives and the catalyst spell fizzles away. I feel a dark tendril of despair creeping into my heart as the beast bellows and sets again to charge me. I close my eyes, praying to the maker as the creature’s footfalls shake the floor about me. Its enraged roar washes over me from the front as it comes, but a bolstering battle-cry reaches me simultaneously from behind. 

“For the Grey Wardens!” 

I feel footfalls up the rear of my domed shield, and open my eyes to see Alistair’s leap carry him across the intervening space to the great beast’s chest. He lands sword first, the shining blade sinking deep in the space a heart would be in anything human. The creature is off-balanced and falls back, Alistair riding the creature down to the ground, sword twisting as they go. Alistair swings to the side, ripping his blade from the creature’s chest, and rolls clear as a great fountain of blood sprays into the room. My concentration is broken by this astounding display, and I feel my shield melt away. Alistair rolls to his feet across the hall, and rushes to a window arch I had not noticed at the side of the hall. He raises a looking glass to his eye and surveys the battles below. I can hear horns and cries faintly, as I orient myself in my suddenly quiet surroundings. 

“Close and bar the door,” I order our soldiers softly, “the darkspawn may summon reinforcements as surely as we.” Alistair turns from his vantage and calls to me “Light the beacon, Logain must charge.”

I see the great stack of oil-soaked planks between vast steel mirrors, and I retrieve the rod of fire My King pressed into my hands mere hours ago. I aim and whisper the trigger word inscribed upon its surface, and am rewarded with an instant, roaring blaze.

Our task done, I take stock of the room and my band of heroes. I detail one of the soldiers to search for and distribute usable bolts and arrows, and the other to find any usable rope or cloth. We had passed a great breach in the first floor corridors, and there was no way to fill it, so I figure we will need a different way back down. We have just secured our makeshift rope-ladder and tossed it down the side of the tower when the bar across the door splinters and the door itself explodes inward. I straighten up from my task, too weary even to think of which spell to incant. Crossbow bolts suddenly blossom from both of my shoulders. I fall back in in shock, then scream as the searing agony reaches my exhausted mind. My vision blurs to black upon the scene of Alistair and my two soldiers rushing the darkspawn horde, my name their battle-cry. My thoughts are disjointed, half-formed things and fitter between apologies to Cailan that my vow until death was only a single day and wonder at how fierce and brave Alistair is in battle.


	7. What Dreams May Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warden Amell survives Ostagar, though she's stuck in the Fade for a bit while her body heals from what should have been mortal wounds. Plans for rebuilding after the battle take shape, and Warden Amell finds she has no time to mourn what is lost.

All is in darkness, and I know not how long I have been here nor how long I will be forced to remain. I can hear unintelligible whispers all about me, intermittently coaxing and commanding in their tone. I know they want something of me, but I am not inclined to give it, whatever it is. The whispers make me feel uneasy, unclean. I float within this void of darkness for an interminable time before I begin to make out tiny points of light. I will myself toward them, finally recognizing this as the realm of dreamers. I am not entirely dead, then.

I search through the myriad lights, finding one that feels somehow familiar, and look in to see myself fall, transfixed through the shoulders by great, black shafts. Alistair charges forward with my name upon his lips and lays waste to a score of darkspawn before coming back to my side and cradling my limp body in his arms. “Why?” he whispers, cradling me close to his chest, “Why?” Then there is a great shake of impact, blackness, and I watch myself fall once more. Five times I watch this endless repeat, each flavored with more sorrow, regret, guilt, and self-recrimination than the last. Finally, I find how I can intervene. As Alistair charges the darkspawn on the sixth repeat, I send my own self to inhabit the dream construct. This can be dangerous, but I am certain I have nothing to lose. As Alistair takes me in his arms, I force my eyes open. “Why?” He whispers, “why?” 

“I don’t know,” I whisper to him, “you are the idiot who saved me rather than escaping.” I grin at him weakly. His eyes grow round and he presses a kiss to my lips even as I feel the great shake of impact and rip myself from the construct. All is darkness in Alistair’s dream for a moment, and when light and color return, Alistair is arguing with a mage upon the floor of a ruined temple. A cloaked figure walks upon the scene at the edge of the floor. As the mage stalks off, the figure tosses back its hood and glistening, raven tresses tumble forth around a luminously pale face. Lavender eyes glitter with suppressed mirth. “The one good thing about a blight is how it brings people together,” Alistair says, turning to the beauty in the cloak. “I agree completely,” I whisper in exact time with the figure, only now realizing that this is the first time Alistair and I met. I am awed and complimented at the radiance he ascribes to me in his dream. I also feel I am somehow intruding on deeply private matters now, so I pull away.

I float through the void between dreams for some time, not knowing what I am seeking, knowing only that I am trying to run away from the dark whispers I emerged from. “Come back,” I hear clearly from that shadowy realm. “You go too far, young Warden, come back.” The whisper is unlike the others. Not only can I understand it, but it feels clean and familiar. I follow the whisper and it continues to call to me. “You were injured gravely at the tower, but you yet live. Come back, you are needed.” As I approach the source of the whisper, I feel light and warmth, even in the midst of the twisted, whispering darkness. The unintelligible, coaxing commands grow louder and louder as I pass through them toward the source of light and warmth. Within the light, I see a tall, striking figure. She turns to me, pale hair flowing and bouncing about her face and the great, twisting horns that grace the sides of her head as if in the current of a stream. Luminous amber eyes glow in a porcelain-pale face. Deep ruby lips curve into a welcoming smile, and the ageless beauty opens her arms wide in welcome. “I am glad you have found your way back to yourself, young Warden, there is much to be done if you are ever to heal and wake again,” she says to me, even as she guides me into the pale void of light.

My eyes open slowly, and I must immediately shut them again, sight is too much to bear. I listen first to the crackling of a fire, the soft chirp of a bird in a tree, muffled by the comforting barrier of mudbrick walls. A quill scratches against parchment, and is then lain softly down. A metallic groan and the slosh of thick fluid tell me that a pot is being moved from over a hearth fire. A delicious aroma of hearty meats and savory herbs wafts to my nose as I hear the soft scrape of a spoon along the inside of a pot, stirring what must be stew. My belly rumbles, and I hear a melodious chuckle. More slowly this time, I ease my eyes open. 

In the cheery light of the cookfire, I see a beautiful girl, not much older than myself. Her disheveled raven tresses and pale, wolfish eyes are familiar to me. “You’re the girl from the wilds…” I whisper, my voice little more than the creaking groan. “Indeed,” she says in her stern and mocking voice “I am glad you have rejoined us. What do you remember of the battle?”  
“I remember being overwhelmed by the darkspawn,” I say hesitantly, fighting for memories in the blackness of my mind “how did we escape?” 

“Mother turned herself into a great bird and plucked you and the other Warden from the tower,” she pauses for effect, her eyes gleaming, “one in each talon.”

“Why did she save us?” I ask in wonder.

“I wonder that myself,” she says, finger tapping her lips, “a King would fetch a much higher ransom.”

“Much higher indeed,” I say, tears prickling my eyes at the memory of Cailan’s smile.

“Very sensible,” she mutters with a nod in my direction before returning to the pot to dish up two bowls of stew.

“Were my wounds severe?” I ask.

“Yes, but nothing Mother could not heal,” she replies with nonchalant dismissal.

“Thank you, Morrigan,” I say, recalling her name finally.

“You… are welcome,” Morrigan says with surprised hesitation, “though Mother did most of it. I am no healer.” 

“What about the army, the King?” I ask as I accepting the bowl of stew.

Morrigan settles herself on the foot of the bed in which I find myself, taking a bite of the stew and urging me to do the same.  
I eat, hesitantly, at first, but soon with ravenous fury.

“The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field,” Morrigan tells me matter-of-factly as I finish the bowl of stew. “Your King and the Grey Wardens were slain.” She looks into the distance, obviously reviewing all the carnage in her mind’s eye. “Your friend, he is not taking it well.”

The tears come to my eyes and pour over my cheeks. Cailan is gone. I failed him, I got the beacon blazing and still failed him. The battle was lost, the army lost, my king… “My friend…” I ask hoarsely, trying to get my mind to focus on anything but the fact of Cailan’s death, “You mean Alistair?”

“The suspicious, dim-witted one who was with you before,” she says with a look of distaste as she retrieves my bowl, “yes. Now if you’ve no other questions…” she trails off, gesturing to my robes, clean now and laid out upon a nearby chair.

I nod, and groan with the effort of rising, in the end, Morrigan must help me to my feet. She helps me dress in companionable silence, and I whisper the incantations to close my robes. She further assists me to don my battle harness, no small feat considering the stiffness of barely healed wounds in both shoulders, and assists me to the door.

“There is your friend now,” I hear the unoiled hinge creak of Morrigan’s mother’s voice.

“You are all right,” Alistair turns to me, wonder in his eyes, and I rush to close the distance between us, grasping his harms with my hands to test the solidity of him. He touches my face, my hair, my shoulders, but does not gather me into his arms as my robes bear patches on shoulders and ribcage that make him wince with memory.

“I am,” I say, “Thanks to Morrigan’s mother.”

“Yes,” he agrees, searching my eyes for something, though I am unsure what, “thanks to Morrigan’s mother.”

“Do not speak of me as though I am not here,” the crone complains testily.

“I do not mean to, but we don’t know…” Alistair stammers, an embarrassed blush staining the tops of his ears, “…you never gave us your name.”

“The Chasind call me Flemeth,” the old woman croaks, a wicked smile curling her lips, and challenge shining in her eyes, “you may call me so if you like.”

I cannot speak. My heart is fluttering madly like a trapped bird. The mad, barely-contained power that I felt from this woman is explained. Before me is the greatest of all abominations, undying and demon-possessed, the deaths of millions are attributed to her wrath. Lines from ancient treatises in the dark archives dedicated to the supposition of whether a demon like Flemeth could even be killed dance through my mind, and a memory of Jowan whispering the ancient tale of the Chasind around a candle in the pitch black of the post-lights-out apprentice quarters sends a chill down my spine. 

“The Flemeth?” Alistair breathes in startled awe, finding his tongue before me. “Daveth was right, you’re the Witch of the Wilds.”

“Witch of the Wilds indeed.” Flemeth huffs.

“Thank you for saving us, Flemeth,” I say in a reverent whisper. “But what will we do now, the other Wardens were slaughtered.

“Yes,” Alistair replies gruffly, “Logain abandoned the King to die, If Arl Eamon knew…”

“Why would Logain do such a thing?” I ask forlornly, feeling a pain through my heart with the sure knowledge that I will never again see Cailan’s smile.

“Why indeed?” Flemeth breaks into my reverie “There is more darkness in men’s souls than even the Blight.”  
“We must do something.” Alistair bursts out, hands thrown up in frustration.

“This Arl Eamon you spoke of…” I start.

“Yes, he was not at Ostagar. He still has all of his men, and he was Cailan’s uncle.” Alistair squares his shoulders, looking like a man who has found purpose.

“Surely there are other allies we can call on,” I muse.

“The treaties!” Alistair exclaims, grasping his satchel, they command aid in the face of a blight.”

“Elves, Dwarves, Mages, this Arl Eamon…” Flemeth lists for us to hear, “This sounds like an army to me.”

“But can we do it?” Alistair looks to me, his eyes pleading for reassurance.

“It is what Grey Wardens do,” I say with quiet determination, willing Alistair to believe me and take heart.

“Thank you, Flemeth,” I begin, knowing that we must take our leave before our confidence fails.

“There is one more thing I can offer you,” Flemeth states confidently, as Morrigan approaches.

“The stew is ready, mother, shall we have two more for dinner, or none?” She asks, glaring at Alistair.

“Get your things, girl,” Flemeth says with a triumphant smile, “You are going with them.”

“Have I no say in this?” Morrigan protests, her glare now for her mother.

“You have been itching to leave the wilds for years, girl, and besides, it is not safe for you here.” The crone turns to Alistair and myself, “And as for you, Wardens, I give you that which I value above all things.”

“She will not come to harm with us,” I vow, gazing directly into Flemeth’s completely lucid eyes.

“Fine, I will get my things,” Morrigan calls over her shoulder as she goes back into the hut. “Remember to take the stew off the fire,” she calls out moments later as she returns, “I should not like to come back to a smoking mess when we return.”  
I admire Morrigan’s bravado, even as I finalize plans with my small party of fledgling adventurers. I gather from the plans that I had been unconscious for nearly seven days, and that Logain had been marching the troops to Denerim in that time, sending messengers to all regions of the kingdom to levy more troops. A little over a day’s march north of us on the Royal Highway, is the little hamlet called Lothering where we plan to resupply. If we are very lucky, we will be able to find horses along with news of any possible survivors from our order.

Alistair is silent and brooding for the whole first day of the march. Morrigan and I share lore of the Wilds and compare notes on edible, medicinal, and poisonous plants. She has taken an instant and bone-deep dislike to Alistair. When he pulls himself from his brooding silence long enough to look at her, I sense the same antipathy in his gaze.

As we make camp near the Royal Highway, I see Morrigan mutter an incantation and spin herself about, her body changing as she spirals. The punctuation of the incantation is a howl, as I look into Morrigan’s eyes staring back at me above the muzzle of a wolf. “You are off to scout our perimeter, I ask of the wolf, studiously masking my surprise at her strange talent.” The wolf nods and sets off.

Alistair woodenly assists me in the gathering of wood and building of a fire. I rummage at the bottom of my satchel, and find several tubers and a few wild leeks that I have gathered on our march from Flemeth’s hut this morning. I skewer these on a pair of sharpened sticks, and create a makeshift spit over the fire to roast them. Alistair throws down a bedroll, and curls upon it, knees to chest and back to me.

His head is pillowed on his own rucksack, and I can see the minute shaking of sobs that he is unwilling for me to see. I grant him his privacy until the food is cooked through and his sobs ease. Dividing the meal into three portions, I wrap them in clean leaves, setting one parcel near the fire for Morrigan, and take the other two over to Alistair’s still, silent form. Setting them gently upon the ground, I kneel next to Alistair’s bedroll.

“Are you all right? I whisper, laying a hand upon his shoulder and pitching my voice to be soothing and comforting. He rises to a sitting position, arms hugging knees, head bowed. “Do you want to talk about Duncan?” I ask, sensing the almost palpable grief pouring from my silent companion. “You don’t need to do that,” he mumbles, turning his head slightly away, “you didn’t know him as long as I did.” 

I shift forward, onto the bedroll, rising to my knees and reaching across his body to place my bare hand upon his far cheek, his stubble delightfully prickly and his skin hot against my twilight-chilled hand. I apply pressure gently, and he allows me to turn his face to mine. “That doesn’t mean I don’t mourn his loss,” I whisper, willing him to see my shared sorrow. He presses his cheek into my hand and closes his eyes, drawing a ragged breath.

“Any of us could die in battle,” he begins, his mournful voice full of self-reproach. “I shouldn’t have lost it, not when so much is riding on us. Not with the Bilght and… everything.” I feel the liquid warmth of a tear drop into the center of my palm. “I’m sorry,” he says, wiping his eyes and trying to pull away.

“I rise to my knees again, catching both of his sculpted, scruffy cheeks in my hands. I drag his gaze around to mine and say softly but sternly, “There is no need to apologize.” My soul bleeds for him as I see his struggle to master his grief. I let go of his face, only to crawl onto the bedroll beside him and pull his head against my chest, an arm wrapped about his shoulders and my cheek pillowed against the soft, disheveled, dark-gold mop of his hair. I let my tears fall unabashedly upon his scalp as we sit in silence for the duration of a half dozen silent sobs. 

Alistair breathes deeply and exhales a great sigh. “I’d…” he swallows hard, and I know he is choking down his grief, “like to have a proper funeral for him. Maybe once this is all done, if we’re still alive. I don’t think he had any family to speak of.”  
“He had you,” I murmur, tightening my grip about his shoulders. Alistair relaxes into the hug, accepting the consolation I offer for a moment before he continues. “I suppose he did. It probably sounds stupid, but part of me wishes I was with him in the battle. I feel like I abandoned him.”

“He saved your life by sending you to the tower,” I say softly, not adding the “with me” that echoes through my heart.  
“I know,” he replies, stiffening resolutely in my arms and pulling away. I sit back, feeling bereft, as this is the closest I have come to meaningful human contact since the battle. He turns to me, a pensive look washing across his face. “I think he came from Highever,” he muses,” or so he said. Maybe I’ll go up there sometime, see about putting up something in his honor, I don’t know.” He shrugs, and then looks me directly in the eyes, “Have you… had someone close to you die?”

The words hit me with the force of the crossbow bolts only recently removed from my flesh. Cailan’s boyish grin flashes across my memory, along with Jowan’s last angry glare, Cullen’s whispered farewell, and the long forgotten sound of my mother’s screams as the Knight-Captain ripped me from her arms. I shut my eyes tight against the welling tears hug myself tightly, suddenly chilled. “Not that I mean to pry,” Alistair rambles quickly on, “I’m just…”

A silent sob shudders through me as strong hands settle gently on my shoulders. “I…” I start and must suppress another sob, “have lost enough to know what you’re going through.” I finish on a whisper and look up into his golden gaze. My lavender eyes brimming with tears. 

“Yes, I… imagine you really have, haven’t you?” He whispers, his voice tinged with wonder and self-reflection. “Thank you,” he says softly, and my eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Really, I mean it,” he says, eyes round and earnest. He squeezes my shoulders gently for a moment before releasing me. “It was good to talk about it, at least a little,” he says as he gathers up the steaming parcels of food, his stomach growling.

“Maybe I’ll go to Highever with you when you go,” I say quietly, accepting my parcel and opening it delicately.  
“I would like that,” he says, smiling wanly at me, “Duncan would too, I think.” I return his wan smile and begin to systematically devour the smoky, campfire-grilled tubers and veg. Despite all that has transpired, I find myself adding salt and basic spices to my mental tally of what we need to resupply in Lothering. Even with the leeks and woodsmoke, tubers are a bland dinner. I mention this aloud, and we both laugh companionably.

We sit in close proximity and I ask him to tell me more about the organization of the Grey Wardens, and about the wardens he had known. He tells me the story of Gregor, who once drank a whole battalion under the table, but finishes with tears once more in his eyes as he mentions that Duncan came into the hall at the end of these shenanigans and laughed himself near to death. “He was a good man,” I whisper, laying a hand again upon Alistair’s shoulder.

“He died a hero,” he says, “They all did. I think I’m done talking now,” he says, his eyes closing tight, I stroke his cheek once, as I cannot help myself. He presses his face into the caress, and I feel a sense of closeness that I have never truly known before, not even with my closest friends in the Tower. I rise and announce that I shall take watch now and he should get some sleep. I hear snores of agreement within five breaths.

I add one more medium branch to the fire, and then look away into the night, seeking Morrigan’s wolf form in the shadows. Eventually, she returns to the camp, shimmering back into her proper shape as she enters the circle of firelight. I hand her the parcel of tubers, still warm from their proximity to the flames. “My turn to make dinner,” I say with a smile, “but not near as good as your stew.” 

“Far from it,” she agrees with her first bite, her nose wrinkling. “It’s passable, though,” she says, swallowing her first bite, “but it needs salt and some decent spices.”

“You know, I was just thinking the same thing a moment ago,” I say with a grin. “Tell me about Lothering, do you think we can find some there?”

Morrigan and I talk late into the night. I am full of questions about her life in the Wilds, her experiences as wolf and raven and what other forms she enjoys taking. She asks few questions of me, but pays hawkish attention to my reactions to the things she says. I find I have absorbed some of Justine’s calm reserve over the years, and no matter how fantastical the tale seems, I accept it as truth. Morrigan may be cunning and strange, but thus far in my experience with her, she is honest and blunt. I realize Morrigan knows she would gain nothing from telling me falsehoods, and so she does not. She tells me of her past deceits, however, using the opportunity to advise me about men. “Men will always believe two things of a woman,” she tells me, glaring at Alistair’s resting form, “that she is helpless, and that she desires him.” 

I think of my limited experience of men, and realize that although she cannot see it for her dislike of him, Alistair is the only exception I have met to Morrigan’s rule. “You are right,” I whisper in wonder. The only questions Morrigan asks me through the whole conversation are my opinions on her as a shapeshifting apostate mage. I tell her that her skills seem most useful, the magical tradition should be preserved, and that I myself often felt as a caged bird within the tower. I find I mean every word, and that I feel the deepest remorse for my part in conspiring to entrap Jowan. My heart feels lightened that he did escape, regardless of the consequences. After all, it is only her experience outside any cage that has made Morrigan so self-reliant, and thus her will so powerful. She has no risk of ever becoming an abomination, for she has not been forced under the yoke of obedience until it becomes her nature, as is the case of those who fail the Harrowing.

I ponder on this, even as I wish Morrigan a restful sleep. She glares as Alistair once more before preparing her bedroll on the opposite side of the fire. I do not wake Alistair this night, nor do I rest. I have spent days hovering between this world and the Fade, and I find I have no desire to scout that margin again any time soon.

I do engage in a meditation that Cullen once taught me. I close my eyes, and reach out with my consciousness to touch the weave of the Maker. I feel the ebb and flow of life through the earth, to the roots of the trees, out through their leaves. I feel the tiny sparkles of the small things of the world, ants, caterpillars, moths, pill-bugs and myriad others I have never before experienced or heard named. I feel the golden purity of the fire’s energy, and the deep mystery of the water in a nearby stream. I reach out and touch upon my companions, learning their essence, the shape of their wills even as they sleep.   
As the first rays of dawn creep over the horizon, I feel all the creatures of the night seek their lairs, and the creatures of the day begin to waken. Alas, at the far, far reach of my consciousness, I also feel the sickly, twisted, corrupting essence of the Blight. I feel the rising panic of the denizens of sky, stream, and stone as they seek to flee that corruption. I feel the lamentation of the forest, for the tree, rock, and stream themselves cannot flee.

I keep my eyes closed and push my consciousness past its current border, examining the tainted essence of the Blight. Even as I internally recoil from it, I recognize its flavor from the corruption I keep within a tiny soul-cage. I push myself to my limits of will and past, seeking an accounting of the number in the bulk of the horde that follows, and I know rage as I never have before. The horde following is less than a quarter of the strength we faced at Ostagar. Had Logain charged rather than retreating with his three quarters of our forces, we would have eliminated the horde completely, just as Cailan envisioned. The horde is swelling its numbers, however from the deep passages beneath the Tower of Ishal, and with every small village and land holding taken, it is limiting our capability to turn it back. I pull back into myself and open my eyes. The fire burns low, and my companions still sleep within the crepuscular dim. Alistair thrashes and groans restlessly, while Morrigan snores delicately. They may hate one another with the passionate fire of a thousand suns, but I grow fonder of each of my companions. I let my heart lift with the burgeoning sense of kinship and a genuine smile on my lips.


	8. One is silver and the other gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Making new friends in Lothering, and learinging more about the old ones on the journey

I put my fingers to my mouth and gave a piercing whistle. Both my companions sit bolt-upright, staring about themselves and attempting to gird for unknown battle. My heart warms as I speak to them softly. “It is time to wake and break camp. Alistair, please fetch us some water while Morrigan and I forage what provisions we can,” I direct, handing Alistair the large waterskin and a small cookpot Flemeth had been gracious enough to supply us with. 

He glares at me, even has he accepts the skin and pot. “Come now,” I chide, “the Blight waits for no man.” With a wink, I turn from him to Morrigan. Her glare is slightly more intimidating than Alistair’s had been, but I am yet unimpressed. “We want to eat tonight, do we not?” I ask her cheerily. “Fine,” she says, her glare breaking, “I set some snares last night so we may even have meat.” I look at her with new admiration. “Could you teach me?” I ask with genuine respect and curiosity. “’Tis simple enough,” she remarks, “even a moron such as Alistair could learn it.” She aims a glare at Alistair’s retreating back. I sigh and feel my eyes roll without my being able to stop them. “Come,” I request, “teach me.” 

“You will master it quickly,” she states with absolute confidence as she rises and gathers her staff. We follow her path from the night before, and retrieve her snares, some successful and others not so. By the third unsuccessful snare, I am able to disarm and retrieve without instruction. By the sixth snare, I ask Morrigan to watch as I set one. She inspects my work and gives useful critique. My second try is better, and my third perfect. As we gather the fifth rabbit from her final snare, she stops a moment and looks about her. “I have been here before,” she whispers, a shrewd look upon her face, “as a child. Come,” she motions to me to follow her further from the camp, “there is something that may be of interest to us.”

We skirt between thickets which bear a striking resemblance to overgrown hedgerows. Between trees which I recognize as bearing edible nuts, I stop Morrigan. We gather nuts until my satchel is full. “There is more,” she tells me, leading me further into what must have once been a clearing that the forest has only recently reclaimed. After several paces, I see what looks to be the ruins of a stone chimney, surrounded by what may have been fallen timbers, but are now an overgrowth of wickedly thorned berry bramble. Bold green, red, and black berry clusters are everywhere, though reaching them without impaling our tender hands does prove tricky. Further inspection of the area reveals what was once a cottage garden, now wildly overgrown. Some hearty squashes, cabbages, garlics, and tubers cling tenaciously to their soil beds, and we find a wide assortment of aromatic herbs. The herbs we stuff in bunches into Morrigan’s satchel until it is fit to burst, and we pile vegetables, berries, the sack of rabbits, and a few other odds and ends retrieved from the ruin upon my traveling cloak, binding it all with a length of stripped vine between our staves, so that we may carry all of it back to camp. “Did someone live here when you were a child?” I asked Morrigan. “Flemeth and I did,” she tells me with no emotion whatsoever, “before Chantry patrols became too frequent and we moved deeper into the Wilds.” “I am sorry,” I whisper, realizing this must have once been a beautiful cottage. “It is no fault of yours,” She says to me, obvious confusion in her voice. She goes on to tell me how Flemeth treated the raids as a game, using young Morrigan as bait while she hunted down Templars. I look back once more on the overgrown ruins, thinking that the same may well have been my fate had my mother ever succeeded in reclaiming me from the Tower as she’d wanted. Such speculation is pointless, I decide, concentrating instead on the problem of carrying all of these provisions on the next leg of our journey.

Morrigan and I arrive to the campsite just as Alistair finishes cleaning, scaling and gutting several fish he has brought back from the stream along with the water I sent him for. I remark upon his obvious skill, and I see him swell with pride. Kicking myself even as I do so, I cunningly ask if he has similar skill at dressing rabbit. He boasts that he does, and with a great grin, I retrieve the sack of rabbits from our pile of provisions and toss it to him. “Wonderful!” I exclaim, “then you can clean and I can cook before we press on.”

I catch Morrigan’s self-satisfied grin as she helps me sort our haul. Most important of all is a moderately sized pouch of salt. Morrigan helps me clean and cut some of the tubers, using half of the water in the pot. We add these to the remaining water in the pot along with a little of the salt, some of the garlics, and two of the rabbits that Alistair expertly skinned and butchered for us. I place the lid snugly upon the pot, and build up the fire around and over it. 

After detailing Morrigan to figure out how to transport the berries, I set Alistair to shelling the satchel full of nuts. Meanwhile, I stuff the remaining rabbits with garlics and aromatic herbs, tying them to my make-shift spit, and last I lay out the fishes upon a plank retrieved from the cottage ruin soaked in water from the waterskin. I crust these with the remaining salt and overlay it all with several layers of wide, well cleaned leaves from the nearby trees. As the cookfire burns low, I concentrate my will and extend my spirit to pick up and move a bed of glowing coals onto the fishes. I retrieve the rabbits when they are browned and the outer skin crispy, transferring them to another set of fresh, cleaned leaves. These will be for later.

When I smell the pungent note of burning leaf, I shift the coals with my will back onto the pot. I lift the layers of singed leaves off the fish, and carefully shake them free of the salt crust, scraping the crust back into its pouch for later. We feast upon nuts, fresh berries, fish and raw cabbages before breaking camp. We have started slow today, but there is much daylight remaining and we will reach Lothering with over half of the hours of daylight remaining. Morrigan snuffs the fire and any remaining heat of the coals with a demonstration of her elemental mastery, and I retrieve the pot, its contents still warm. I bind the lid tightly, and wrap it in the insulation of my unused bedroll, making Alistair carry it, while I take on the burden of his.

Our silence feels companionable as we leave this last healing refuge to face whatever trials and horrors await us. Our companionable silence gradually becomes more fraught and filled with pensive brooding as we pass the wreckage of wagons and more than one set of sunbleached bones picked clean by wolves and ravens. Knowing what little resource we have, and the depth of our own need, we are not shy about looting these testaments of struggle and flight. By the time we are in sight of Lothering, we have a tidy purse, a few spare armaments, a sheaf of hastily written missives, some skins of table wine, a few basic tools to make camping easier, and a not insignificant supply of salt. We are pulling it all, piled upon a very stable and functional hand-cart. I have been able to return my now berry-stained traveling cloak to my shoulders, and we have found a nondescript tabard to throw over Alistair’s armor. We resemble nothing more than a band of refugees. Looking behind us on the road, we can see more small groups of refugees banding together into larger defensive caravans as they pick over the fallen even more shamelessly than we have. I bear them no malice, and hope only that we all arrive safely at Lothering this eve.

As we reach a great, stone bridge spanning a valley long bereft of its river, we come upon a full blockade of upturned wagons and stacked crates. A band of ruffians has gone so far as to build a cookfire in the middle of the bridge before the blockade, and they sit about sharpening blades and polishing cudgels. Before them on the ground, I see the glitter of plate armor, caked liberally with dark, congealing blood. A pair of the thugs plays catch with a rag doll nearer to the upturned wagons. I feel the first flickers of wrath building toward an unquenchable fire in my soul. Alistair and Morrigan look to me, as if to suggest trying to find a way around, but I quicken my pace toward the human refuse ahead. As we come within shouting distance, a dark-haired man rises from behind the cookfire, calling to the others “Wake up gentlemen, we have more travelers to attend to.”

I feel my teeth grind, and my vision begins to tinge red. I stop well short of the bandit fortifications, leaning on my battle staff as though it is a mere walking stick. With a hand gesture, I command Morrigan and Alistair to set down the cart. Alistair buckles on his shield and limbers up his sword arm. Morrigan sets her feet as though she aims to beat men down with her staff. “I’ll wager the pretty one is the leader,” the brigand says, as he approaches us. A predatory gleam in his eye that tells me he has already undressed me and decided that I am a commodity worth claiming as his own. I straighten to my full, though unimpressive, height and glare balefully at the man. “Uh.. they don’t look much like them others, maybe we should just let these ones pass, “one of the henchmen mutters to the dark haired man, taking an involuntary step backward as Alistair rolls his shoulders and steps into the stance to charge if commanded.

“Nonsense,” the dark haired bandit snaps at his lieutenant, taking one final step forward and bowing mockingly to us. “Greetings, travelers,” he calls across the short intervening distance, a wolfish grin upon his face. “Highwaymen,” Alistair murmurs in disheartened realization, “preying on those fleeing the darkspawn, I suppose.” The white-hot steel of my heart cools and softens slightly at the betrayed tone in his voice, and a tendril of wonder grows through me at my companion who must be so innately good that he only now realizes the wickedness before us. “They are fools to get in our way,” Morrigan growls softly, “I say, teach them a lesson.” The heat and hardness return to my soul in complete agreement.

“Now, is that any way to greet someone?” The bandit leader mocks, blissfully unaware that he has just signed his own death warrant. “A simple ten silvers, and you’re free to move on.” 

We could pay that, we have far more in the purse at my hip, but I consider the refugee caravan behind and know I cannot let these men pray upon them. “So you’re toll collectors, then?” I hear myself saying, even as I am calculating the most effective way to kill them all. “Yes,” the bandit replies merrily, as his gang draws closer to hear the banter, “For the upkeep of the King’s highway.”

“Maybe you should charge more, then,” I purr, buying time for them to cluster more closely.

“You want to pay more, do you?” The leader laughs, clapping his lieutenant on the shoulder in sheer delight at the exchange.

“It’s just that it’s a pittance for all the trouble,” I reply, my purr becoming a growl.

“That sounded like a threat,” The lieutenant says, eyeing me warily.

“It’s not very polite to threaten,” The leader says, “there are penalties.”

“Yah,” the lieutenant pipes up with brutish glee, “we get to kill you and ransack your corpses.”

“You can try,” I snap, and begin to incant, the gang of thieves having finally packed close enough together.

The leader charges me, and I stand my ground, pushing my will into his lieutenant’s body even as Alistair steps in front of me and pushes the leader back with an impressive shield bash. Morrigan lets out a wolf-like war howl and slams the butt of her staff into the ground, stunning and disorienting all of the bandits. I feel the reaction within the bandit lieutenant’s blood begin to catalyze, and I feed it more and more energy. Righteous wrath breaks into triumphant glee as the whole band begin to shake off the effects of Morrigan’s spell, and the bandit lieutenant howls in agonized terror. The bandits have just long enough to stare at him, and Alistair and Morrigan just long enough to step back behind me and my shield of spirit, as the lieutenant explodes. The shrapnel of his spine and ribcage tear through his tightly clustered allies. The bandit leader’s shield is in just the right position to deflect the projectile bones, but he is knocked to the ground by the shockwave accompanying the blast. I stride toward him. 

“All right,” the previously cocky brigand pants “I surrender! We… we’re just trying to get by, before the darkspawn get us all…” 

“Get by?! You’re a criminal!” My voice is almost an unnatural shriek in my ears. 

“Yes, I’m a criminal. I admit it. I apologize,” the terrified man rambles, desperate to save his own hide. I look to the side, at Alistair, and I see awe, shaded by horror in his eyes. My ragefires snuff immediately. 

“I’m turning you over to the authorities,” I say sternly. 

“There aren’t any,” the bandit shrieks, “Only the Templars, and they’ll kill me.” 

“They will do what they must.” I say to him, my voice holding nothing but weariness and pain. 

The man is on his feet now, and cries “I’m not going down without a fight!”

I am surprised by his charge, and even more surprised to feel Morrigan pull me aside. Alistair appears where I had been moments ago, and meets the dark-haired bandit’s charge. Neither Morrigan nor I interfere in the most basic of all measures of justice in this realm, trial by combat. Alistair may no longer be associated with the Chantry, but he was a Templar, and this one of his duties. I admire how sure and swift he wields sword and shield. It is much like a beautiful dance. I study, noting to myself how sword and shield are but extensions of arm. Alistair is calm, collected, at one with himself and assured in this dance as I have never seen in our noncombat interaction. This is the discipline of Templar training he mentioned at our first meeting. Before I realize, it is done. Three great strokes knock the bandit one way, and then the other, spinning him about even as the third stroke cleanly decapitates him.

My companions and I say nothing at all as we search through the remains of the bandits, retrieving coins and removing all scraps of reusable armament and armor. I check the armor-clad body as well, retrieving a locket and a sheaf of documents, which appear to be notes on the relative success of his quest to find “The Urn.” We leave the crates. Perhaps someone in town will be able to organize recovery efforts. We add our pickings to our handcart and wend our way through the mess. Just to the other side, Alistair stops and breaks the silence. “Well, there it is,” he says with an expansive gesture, “Lothering. Pretty as a painting.”

“Ah,” mocks Morrigan, “so you have finally decided to rejoin us have you? Falling on your blade in grief seemed too much trouble, I take it?”

“Is my being upset so hard to understand?” Alistair snaps back, and I am gratified to see his passion. “Have you never lost someone important to you? Just what would you do if your mother died?”

“Before or after I stopped laughing?” Morrigan continues to goad. I am torn between wanting to defend my friend and knowing that this adversarial banter is precisely what he needs to find the fire to keep going.

“Right…” Alistair gowls, “very creepy… forget I asked.” My two companions glare at one another for an uncomfortable moment before I find the words to break the stalemate.

“You have been very quiet,” I prompt Alistair kindly.

“Yes, I know,” he says with a shrug, tearing his eyes from Morrigan and focusing on me. He looks at his toes for a moment, shrugging again. “I was just… thinking.”

Not missing an opportunity to heckle, Morrigan chimes in. “No wonder it took so long!”

“Oh,” Alistair replies testily, glaring back at Morrigan, “this is the part where we’re shocked to discover that you’ve never had a friend your entire life.”

“I can be friendly if I desire to,” Morrigan needles, “alas desiring to be more intelligent does not make it so.”

I can hear Alistair’s teeth grind from the intervening distance between us, and he pointedly turns from Morrigan to me. “Anyway,” he drawls, fighting for calm, and finding it in my gentle gaze, “I thought we should talk about where we intend to go first.”

“You have thoughts on the matter?” I asked, warmth and encouragement coloring my tone.

“This should be good,” Morrigan just cannot seem to resist, and I must glare at her before turning my encouraging look back to Alistair.

“I think,” Alistair pauses for a moment, waiting for more baiting, but Morrigan is watching me instead, “that what Flemeth suggested is the best idea. These Treaties, have you looked at them?”

“I have not had the chance,” I reply.

He explains that there are three main groups we have treaties for, and that his feeling is still that Arl Eamon of Redcliffe is our best bet for aid, suggesting we go there first. It is a sensible strategy, and I am reassured that there is a sharp, tactical mind under all that grief my friend is carrying. 

“And what would you suggest, Morrigan?” I ask.

“Go after your enemy directly,” she tells me decisively, “Find this man Logain and Kill him, and the rest of this business with the treaties can be done in safety.”

“Yes, he certainly wouldn’t see that coming,” Alistair mocks in turn, “and it’s not like he has the advantage of an army and experience, and…”

“I was asked for my opinion and I gave it,” Morrigan cuts in, “If your desire is to give reason why something cannot be done, we will be here until the darkspawn are upon us.” I can sense both Morrigan’s annoyance at Alistair, and see his gratification for putting her on the defensive for once.

They both turn to me, and I feel the weight of responsibility settle upon my narrow and unprepared shoulders. “Why are you leaving it up to me?” I ask, buying time to think.

“Well I don’t know where we should go,” Alistair sighs in frustration, “I’ll do whatever you decide.”

“Now that is unsurprising,” Morrigan heckles.

“Arl Eamon is a good man,” Alistair explains to me, pointedly ignoring Morrigan, “But I don’t know for sure if he’s where we should go. I’m not going to fight about it.”

Needing to break up the argument, I tell them both that I have decided, and that we should get into the village for resupply. A tent city for refugees has sprung up outside the village fortifications, and a Templar stands vigil within the gates, urging us to move on. The unwashed and starved are everywhere, and I send Morrigan with the cart to find the inn in hopes of gathering information on where best to trade. Alistair tosses his bloodied tabard upon the cart, and stands straight, every inch the Templar as he escorts me to the Chantry. I am a mage of the circle in the appropriate robes of my rank. With the proper Templar escort, we are likely to be able to gather news and request aid. Morrigan would be a hindrance to the negotiation, not only for her attitude, but for the palpable essence of her wild magic.

Even more lost souls fill the Chantry. Widows, orphans, entire displaced families line the hall in hopes of charity, support, or at the very least the solace of the chant. Alistair and I approach the knight commander with report of the bandits on the road which we have slain. The Knight commander offers reward that I decline, stating that it was our duty as Grey Wardens. The Knight Commander takes pause, and respectfully tells us not to repeat that. Logain has put a bounty on the heads of all Grey Wardens, placing blame for Cailan’s death at Ostagar upon our order. Rage and dread war in my soul as I politely coax all the information from the Knight Commander that he can give me.

Alistair and I must find a seat in a Chantry pew after the wash of news. We sit, pressed together at the shoulder, with heads in hands. Not only has Logain declared the Grey Wardens traitiors to the crown and blamed us for King Cailan’s death, Arl Eamon’s men have been scattered to the four winds, searching for the Urn of Sacred Ashes. Orzammar’s gates are furhter barred to all, as their assembly debates the succession of a fallen king there as well. I think of Warden Aeducan’s grim quiet and wonder if it was the loss of two of his sons that did the old king in. I cannot even summon the will to ask about the fate of the mages from Ostagar.

It is all too much, and we will need fix every bit of it to stand against not only Logain, but a full scale Blight. As one, Alistair and I take deep, fortifying breaths and rise. We go to speak to the Revered Mother of this chantry. 

After receiving the blessing and giving as tithe all the blood money we stripped from the Bandits, Alistair and I leave. On the way out, we check the Chanter’s Board for work that will pay well and bring positive rumor to the Warden cause. We pause only once more to speak to a family of elves begging within the town before going to meet Morrigan at the inn. The elves are overjoyed to hear that we have dispatched the bandits who robbed them of everything, including their pet goat. Neither Alistar nor I have the heart to tell them that we interrupted a goat banquet when we killed the bandits earlier. 

We find Morrigan staring down would-be scoundrels, who seem to be daring one another to take our goods by force. 

“Gentlemen,” I call out to them, “I appreciate that you have shown my associate to the inn, now please give her some space.”

Four sets of eyes turn to me, and I have the great joy of seeing avarice turn to terror as eyes fall upon the glittering threads of my Circle robes. Four would-be thugs bow, beg apology, and disappear in different directions. As I reach Morrigan’s side, I whisper “At least the trappings of my cage are useful.” She grins appreciatively, and we secure the handcart near the inn stables. I push my will and my magic into a few crystals, which I place about the cart, and make a show of incantation and gestures. 

I turn a glare on the crowd nearby, and say in a conversational tone to Morrigan “I set the protective wards, but I don’t know why we bother when we killed all the bandits just beyond the gate and left their spoils for the town. 

“Because it’s a sensible precaution,” she replies. 

“Are you certain?” I ask as we walk to the tavern door, “An explosion like the last time someone tried to steal from us might level the inn while we are inside.” With that, I signal Alistair to open the tavern door for us, letting rumor take over.

Within, the inn and tavern is packed close to capacity, though a small troop of soldiers is getting a wide berth from the other patrons. The soldiers turn to us we enter. “Look what we have here, men,” calls their leader, “Looks like we’ve just been blessed.” 

“This can’t be good,” Alistair whispers to me as a frightened hush falls over the crowd. 

The soldiers approach, a lieutenant saying to the captain “Didn’t we spend all morning asking about a woman of this very description? And here everyone said they hadn’t seen her?” 

“It seems we were lied to,” the captain growls, glaring at the crowd, and then me. I realize my features are striking, but I could not fathom why I might be searched out. 

The soldiers fan out, readying crossbows, but before I can speak to the captain’s challenge, a lovely, cultured voice with a lilting, Orlesian accent rings out from the inn stairs. “Gentlemen, surely there is no need for trouble.” I turn to see a lay sister of the Chantry, resplendent in her gold-trimmed robes waking toward us. She moves with incredible grace and poise, as though she is ready to spring to battle. Her copper hair shines and bounces playfully about her high cheeks and pointed chin. Great, blue eyes sparkle with secrets in the inn’s lamplight. “These are no doubt simply more poor souls seeking refuge,” she practically purrs, smiling at the Captain as she draws near. She motions us to back toward the door as she turns to face the Captain fully, placing herself between, but to the side of our two dangerous-looking parties.

“They’re more than that,” the captain snaps, turning to menace the brave Sister. “Now stay out of our way, Sister. You protect these traitors, you’ll get the same as them.”

I use the distraction to motion to Alistair and Morrigan to ready their defenses. Alistair slips his shield from his shoulder as discreetly as he can, and Morrigan, much as she detests him, helps him buckle it in place. I step up even with the Sister. “Let us talk about this,” I say in my most patient, quieting voice, “before things get out of hand.” I lean upon my staff as though for balance, and gesture with my other hand open and empty. The Sister’s blue eyes assess me approvingly, as she murmurs to me “I doubt he would listen. He blindly follows his master’s commands.” I know this, but I am buying time to calculate the best way to dispatch these men without harming the crowd.

“I am not the blind one!” The captain roars at the sister, shoving her aside and closing the distance between us. He stands close enough that had he a dagger in-hand he could gut me faster than I could bring my staff down to block. “I served at Ostagar, where the Teyrn saved us from the Grey Warden’s treachery! I serve him gladly!” As his beer-soured breath washes over my face, I must suppress an urge to gag. My hand tightens involuntarily on my staff, and I feel the other hand become a fist. 

“Enough talk,” he commands, stepping back and looking to his lieutenant, “Take the Warden into custody. Kill the Sister and anyone else who gets in your way.” Even as the lieutenant musters his courage to comply, I whisper the incantation to stun and disorient my foes, reaching out with my consciousness to sample their energies for targeting. I force my will upon all the soldiers before me, and am gratified to see most of them slump, lowering their weapons. The captain himself is too stubborn for my will to so easily override his own. He draws his blade, and slashes in one swift and deadly stroke. All that prevents my being laid open from hip to shoulder is the quick action of the Sister. She sees the motion before I do, and grasps my belt, dragging me out of reach not a moment too soon. I do not have a chance to thank her before having to block the blade of another soldier with my staff, as he lunges at the Sister from the side. We grin at one another, and spin apart. Alistair has closed on the captain, engaging him in direct combat. Morrigan has busied herself snuffing the heat and life from the incapacitated soldiers just as she doused our fire this morning. The sister produces a brace of daggers from somewhere within her voluminous robes, and slices at the soldier who just attempted to skewer her. I keep him off-balance, using my staff as a melee weapon, even as I focus my will, remembering the way Alistair’s blade seemed an extension of his will, and I press my spirit outward, manifesting, sharpening, and hardening the will that stretches from Alistair down through his blade, from the Sister through hers, an even mine as it extends through my staff. Out weapons now keen beyond a master blacksmith’s skill, the Sister’s dagger pierces directly through the scales of our foe’s armor, rather than being brushed aside. My staff cleaves a shield, rather than rebounding, and we hear a hair-raising scream of resisting metal followed by a hundred chiming impacts. The crowd about us gasps, and all is stillness as we look to the soldier’s captain, holding up a hilt with less than a handspan of shattered blade remaining.

“All right, you’ve won!” The captain gasps in utter terror, as Alistair takes one more step toward him, blade raised. “We surrender!” The captain pleads, dropping what is left of his blade, and raising empty palms high.

Alistair lowers his blade and stares down the captain. Morrigan looks over, curiously, obviously wanting to go on snuffing the men who are slowly regaining their minds and focus. I step away from the soldier with the cloven shield, and he stumbles to his knees, trying to stem the flow of blood as the Sister slips her dagger free of his body.

“Good,” the sister calls out as we both turn and stride toward the captain, “They’ve learned their lesson and we can all stop fighting now.”

“They aim to butcher us,” I say to the Sister, wondering how she can still look so lovely, even covered in glistening arterial spray. “They deserve no mercy.” I glower at the captain as I say this last, taking another menacing step forward.

“But they failed,” The Sister purrs calmly, soothingly even as she places a restraining hand upon my shoulder. The recently healed wound in the shoulder twinges and throbs, reminding me that I should very much avoid battle for some time yet. 

“They were no match for you!” She pleads with me, moving around to place herself before the captain now, “Let them be!”  
I breathe deeply, and straighten my spine, glaring pointedly, menacingly at Logain’s captain. I look to Alistair, his hand still tight upon the hilt of his own blade, warring between desire to destroy Logain’s power and preserve every life he can to face the darkspawn. I look to Morrigan, who is nonchalantly picking her nails, having lost interest the second the battle paused. I gaze back at the Sister, her blue eyes entreating me to prove I am better than the fools set against me. I sigh, and smile at her for a brief heartbeat, then take a step back and stretch my consciousness to find Alistair’s sword hand, guiding my own fingers to rest upon it, gently easing his blade down. The Sister smiles, relieved, and steps from in front of the captain. All gentleness is erased from my face when I turn to my erstwhile foe. “You will take a message to Logain,” I growl at him.

“Wh-what would you have me tell him?” The captain stammers, his eyes round and fearful, even faced with my mercy.

“Tell him the Grey Wardens know what really happened,” I command, turning and gesturing to the door.

“I’ll tell him. Right away. Now. Thank you!” The captain rambles, terrified as he races past me and out the door. He does not look back to see if any of his troops remain to follow. Those still standing who had been disoriented race out behind him. I motion to the Sister, and she joins me at the side of the soldier on his knees, pale and still bleeding. We remove his vest of scales, and I find the wounds, retrieving an unguent of elfroot from my battle-harness, and pouring some upon each wound, massaging it in. I press a vial of distilled elixir of the same herb into the sister’s hands, and bid her get him to drink it. The blood stops pouring from the wounds, and color begins to return to the soldier’s face. The soldier raises his head weakly and looks on me in abject terror. 

“My quarrel is with the Teyrn who betrayed my King,” I whisper to him, my will reaching out to soothe his own, “not with the men who followed the orders of their commanders. Not with the men who will need to stand against the darkspawn when they come.”

I smile gently at the soldier, and see his fear subside. He looks about the tavern, seeing the still figures of his fallen comrades, though one or two of them appear to be twitching back to life, not entirely snuffed by Morrigan’s elemental magic. “Your captain has left you for dead, and will report you so,” I tell the soldier before me as I bandage the tender, still-healing wounds. I gesture to the men stirring upon the ground and look back at the soldier as I tie off the last bandage. “If you would serve Ferelden, organize these people and help move them to Denerim, Redcliffe, or even strike out for Highever. The darkspawn are only days behind and there are not enough of you to stand against them.”

I stand, gather my companions, and leave the silent tavern, without having made any of the trades I came for. As I reach the unmolested handcart, I hear rapid footfalls behind us and turn. The Sister is racing to catch up. Alistair and Morrigan quietly take defensive positions at my sides. “I apologize for interfering,” the Sister pants as she draws closer, “but I couldn’t just sit by and not help.” 

“That is all right,” I say with an amused grin, “we were happy to save your life.” 

“Save my life!?” She exclaims, “I can handle myself just fine, thank you!” 

“So I see,” I reply with a wink, “where does a Sister learn to fight like that?”

“I wasn’t born in a Chantry, you know,” she begins, “many of us had more… colorful lives before we joined. Let me introduce myself, I am Leliana, one of the lay-sisters of the Chantry here in Lothering, or I was.” 

“I am Tethys,” I say, returning the formality, “a pleasure…”

“Those men said you’re a Grey Warden. You will be battling the darkspawn, yes?” She asks rhetorically, as she gives me no time to affirm or deny. “That is what Grey wardens do. I know after what happened you will need all the help you can get. That’s why I’m coming along.”

Alistair coughs, and Morrigan breathes in sharply. I gesture to quiet them, never taking my eyes of Leliana. “Why so eager to come with me?” I ask, sweetly.

“The Maker told me to,” she replies with absolute conviction.

Morrigan adjusts her stance, obviously readying to cast, and Alistair coughs again. I make the same soothing gesture to them, and ask of Leliana, “Can you… elaborate?”

“I... I know that sounds absolutely insane…” she dissembles, and my companions finally let out pent breaths and ease into restful stances. “But it’s true! I had a dream! A vision!”

“More crazy?” Alistair mutters, and I have to suppress a chuckle “I thought we were all full up.” I cannot see him behind me, but I know he is glaring daggers at Morrigan.

“Look at the people here,” Sister Leliana continues, her face a mask of grief, “they are lost in their despair, and this darkness, this chaos will spread.” Just when I think she is about to shed tears, her expression hardens into lines of determination. “The maker doesn’t want this.” Her lovely face softens again, her blue eyes staring beguilingly into my soul, “What you do, what you are meant to do is the Maker’s work. Let me help.”

I do not wish to see this lovely creature placed in the path of darkspawn, but her eagerness and determination to do some good move me. “Very well,” I hear myself saying before I have even realized my decision, “I will not turn away help when it is offered.”

“Perhaps your skull was cracked worse than mother thought,” Morrigan says with a derisive sigh, and I can feel her eyes roll.  
“Thank you!” Leliana says with a genuine smile, “I appreciate being given this chance. I will not let you down.” 

I think she might start hopping and clapping in moments, and I feel as though I am about to laugh giddily. I squash that impulse down, hard, and make polite introductions. “This is Alistair,” I tell her, “Templar and fellow Warden.” Alistair bows his head graciously. “And Morrigan, our guide and the most fearsome battlemage you are ever likely to meet.” Morrigan’s lips split in a toothy grin. I motion for my companions to make space around the handcart. I speak the words releasing the wards, and rummage about for some scavenged leather armor. I toss the pieces to our new companion, and tell her to suit up and meet us by the town’s rear gates as soon as she is able.

“Let us be out of this press of human sorrows for a moment,” I say to my other companions, taking up the handcart. “I am hungry and do not feel charitable enough to share just now.

Morrigan smiles approvingly, and takes one handle of the handcart from me, making it a much lighter burden with two of us pulling. Alistair says nothing, but his grumbling stomach agrees with my plan quite loudly enough as we wend our way slowly but surely through the press of humanity to the rear gates of the town.

We march out of the rear gate, and by a caged giant who is obviously muttering a meditative mantra in what I think is Qunlat. I find I must stop and inspect this prisoner.

He opens his eyes and looks down at me. “You are not one of my captors,” he tells me, stating the obvious, “I will not amuse you any more than I have the other humans. Leave me in peace”

“You are a prisoner?” I ask, equally as guilty of pointing out the obvious. “Who put you here?”

“I am in a cage, am I not?” The giant gestures in resigned frustration, “I had myself caged.”

“The Revered Mother says he slaughtered an entire family,” Leliana’s dulcet voice chimes out behind us, and I find myself admiring how quickly she has managed to don a full set of fighting leathers and seek me out. “Even the children,” she finishes sadly.

“It is as she says,” the caged giant agrees without emotion. “I am Sten of the Beresaad” he continues, introducing himself without pause, “the vanguard of the Antaam, the eyes and ears of the Qunari peoples.”

“I am Tethys,” I find myself saying politely, the manners drilled deeper than though, “Pleased to meet you.”

“You mock me,” the giant says, lowering striking white eyebrows over the only other set of lavender eyes I have ever seen. “Or…” he assesses my open, neutral expression with confusion, “you show manners I have not come to expect in your lands. 

Though it matters little now, I will die soon enough.” His eyes are resigned, but not sorrowful.”

“This is a proud and powerful creature,” Morrigan says, stepping closer to the cage, “trapped as prey for the darkspawn. If you cannot see a use for him, I suggest releasing him for mercy’s sake alone.”

I am shocked to hear my power-driven, bloodthirsty friend speak of mercy.

“Mercy?!” It is Alistair’s voice, not mine that voices the surprise. “I wouldn’t have expected that from you.”

“I would also suggest that Alistair take his place in the cage,” Morrigan continues, and I can hear the spiteful barb in her voice, pointed at Alistair.

“Yes,” Alistair grumbles with exasperation and disappointment, “that’s what I would have expected.”

I shake my head and close my eyes before once again looking Sten in the eyes.

“I suggest you leave me to my fate,” he states in a voice completely devoid of concern for my decision.

“I find myself in need of skilled help,” I say, assessing the breadth of his shoulders and calculating the power with which he would swing sword or axe.

“No doubt,” Sten replies, “What help do you seek?”

“I am sworn to defend the land against the Blight,” I tell him earnestly.

“The Blight,” he asks, “are you a Grey Warden then?”

“Yes,” I straighten my shoulders under his scrutiny, “I am.”

“Surprising,” he mutters dismissively, “My people have heard legends of the Grey Wardens strength and skill, though I suppose not every legend is true.”

Ignoring the venomless barb in the words, I ask if he feels the Revered Mother might release him.

“Perhaps if you told her the Grey Wardens need my assistance,” he muses, “It seems as likely to bring my death as waiting here.”

“It may at that,” I say without encouragement, leading my band to the other side of the gates, and sitting us all down to a lunch of rabbits, stew, and berries.

Leliana looks across the intervening space at the Qunari, who has returned to his meditations. “To be left here to starve, or to be taken by the darkspawn…” she says with a heavy sigh, “no one deserves that, not even a murderer.”

Alistair, Morrigan, and I all nod agreement. I am resolute in saving this Sten, since doing so is the first and only thing Alistair and Morrigan have ever agreed upon in the history of our acquaintance.

After a moment of reflection, I break the silence. “Leliana,” I begin, “you can handle yourself in a knife fight, but that is too close to any darkspawn for my comfort. Are you skilled with any other weapon?” 

“I prefer the poetry of the bow to the mess of a melee,” she tells me, her nose wrinkling delicately in obvious memory of all the blood she has just had to wash off.

Alistair looks at our copper-haired companion appreciatively, and she smiles back. Morrigan rolls her eyes in disgust and rips into a roasted rabbit with her teeth. I suppress a chuckle. 

“When you have had your fill, please look through the cart for some usable weapons,” I gesture to Leliana with the leg of the rabbit I am currently devouring, and then to the cart.

“That is very generous of you,” she coos with a smile, delicately wiping stew from the corners of her mouth with a bright square of soft cloth, before tucking it away in a satchel I had not noticed before.

Alistair and Morrigan eat in silence, only pausing every so often to glare at one another. I sum up the request from the chanter’s board as we finish, advising Morrigan that the service pays well and we will yet need to resupply before she can argue against doing work for the Chantry.

We limber up and I set wards upon the handcart, leaving it behind as we set off in the shadow of the King’s road, in search of bandits in the fields and meadows that we will be able to reach before nightfall. Leliana tells us the useful rumors regarding where surviving refugees reported attacks, and Morrigan assumes her wolf body to sniff out their trails. The hunt is thrilling, even if I have to contend with a little guilt about hunting humans. I close my eyes and reflect upon the unrepentant viciousness of the thieves we killed only hours before, and my guilt melts away. As the sky begins to paint itself in the crimson and gold of sunset, we crest a hillock to find a meandering river and a bandit camp along its banks. A few men are pawing through a broken chest, and the obvious leader drags a girl backwards by her bound arms across the clearing before their fire. He yanks her onto his lap and I see the glitter of steel as he sets a blade to her throat, his face pressed close to her ear. I feel rage surging through my body, but coldly, I motion everyone to move forward quietly, using the distraction the hostage provides to get in range.

The girl holds very still on her captor’s lap, her eyes wide enough for me to note their color from beyond range for Allistair’s heavy crossbow. I motion him to load, and Leliana draws a clothyard shaft from her quiver, setting it upon the string as we inch forward. I breathe out, and let my will, my very essence creep forth from me, motioning to Morrigan to help me keep moving forward as I seek out to examine the essences of the horrible men ahead.

The girl’s chin quivers as the bandit leader puts a hand to her throat, replacing the blade. The blade he dips into the neck of the girl’s blouse, pushing it down and out, slicing through the threadbare material with barely even a sound of breaking threads. Leliana gasps and Morrigan growls. Alistair’s body stiffens in silent menace as he takes aim at the Bandit leader with his crossbow. “Wait,” I whisper to them, lifting a hand to Alistair’s arm, “you could hit the girl.”

Frustrated, unshed tears glitter in the corners of his eyes as he turns to face me. 

“Wait,” I whisper again, having finally gained the proximity I need to discern one energy source from another. I see the girl’s chest heave, as though she is trying to work up the courage to scream. The tiny mounds of her developing breasts speak to her being even younger than I. My heart wrenches sideways in my chest, and I feel myself weaving the shield of spirit about her even before I realize I have isolated her essence. “Now!” I call out, even as I push forth my will, snapping the shield into place around the captive.

Almost as an after-thought, I incant the explosive spell and force it into the heart of the bandit leader, who has just dropped his blade and sprung away from the unnaturally motionless child.

I am glad I had Alistair wait, as the crossbow bolt flies wide, passing uncomfortably close to the child on its way to an entirely different bandit than the one I know Alistair intended.

Leliana’s shot is much more accurate, and a brightly fletched arrow blossoms from the bandit leader’s shoulder. My companions reload and fire at will, while the bandits rush about in terror, trying to ready their weapons. I am not close enough to disorient them all, but I take a moment to study my two active weaves, and decide to try something creative. As the first of the bandits finds his senses and readies his bow to fire at us across the firelight, I weave together bomb and shield, altering them subtly, and infusing them with my will. His agonized screams freeze his companions in place as I study the results of my experiment. The spirit of the shield is pulled closer and closer to my target, catalyzed by the other spell reacting with the target’s own energy. The effect is implosion of essence, a crushing prison. I think I may have once read a book on the theory of this weave, but I had never before thought to try it. 

The target of my bomb spell starts shrieking as well, and my companions capitalize on the confusion and fear, raining death in the form of arrows, crossbow bolts, and bursts of life-dampening cold. I maintain my hold on the shield about the girl, and feed energy into the reaction building in the bandit leader’s heart. With a sky-splitting boom, the leader explodes, behind the girl and thus out of her sight. I rise and walk forward, my companions following quickly. All is in silence as we reach the fire, and I release the shields from about the girl. I motion Leliana forward, and she runs to the shaken creature, speaking in soothing terms. The girl weeps, and throws her arms about Leliana’s shoulders as soon as they are free. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” I can hear the child whisper over and over as she clings to Leliana. “Hush, now,” I can hear Leliana reply, “You are safe, the Wardens are here. The bad men cannot hurt you now.” I long to be able to comfort another in that way, but history has taught me that most will recoil in greater fear of me than of whatever the true threat may be. I avert my gaze, feeling the prickle of frustrated, self-loathing tears, and systematically search the bandits and the assorted crates, barrels, and bundles that constitute their haul. 

We retrieve a few small purses with the equivalent of thirty silver in smaller coin. That could buy us a horse if there is one in the village to be found, I think. One bundle appears to contain clothing sized for the girl we have just rescued. I repack it, and walk to Leliana, crouching down beside her and the child who is still clinging and weeping. “I think these may be yours,” I murmur softly, sweetly, pushing the parcel toward the girl.” She turns her head to me and gasps, clinging more tightly to Leliana. The reaction feels like a fist closing around my heart, even if I expected it. I hang my head and walk away, attempting to determine a way to transport the usable goods back to the village.

“That’s a mage…” I hear the girl whisper in shock to Leliana. “Where are the Templars? Are we safe?” Leliana points to Allistair, whispering to the girl, “That is her Templar, and I am Leliana, a Lay-Sister of the Lothering Chantry. We will take you safely to Lothering, but you should put on something not so tattered.”

The girl sighs audibly, gazing up at Alistair in reverent awe. Morrigan rolls her eyes and makes a rude gesture at Alistair, but manages to hold her sharp tongue for the moment. The jumble of assorted loot appears to include an overturned trap that would have once been pulled by a single horse. I bring Alistair and Morrigan over, and the three of us are able to right it without difficulty. I give it a full circuit, checking that the wheels are still functional. The harness straps appear to have been cut away completely, but it is otherwise in fine condition. Leliana emerges from behind a heap of boxes with a fully dressed girl in tow. “This is Tessa,” she tells us, and then points me out to the girl, “and this is Tethys, battlemage and Grey Warden, without whom you may not have survived your rescue.” I incline my head, feeling warmth at the genuine respect and admiration in Leliana’s eyes. “And this,” she continues, pointing to my right, “Is Alistair, Warden and Templar” I can hear the creek of leather and metal beside me as Alistair apparently bows to the girl. “And this,” as Leliana points to my left, “is our guide, and expert in the wilds, Morrigan.” Morrigan opens her mouth, I fear to correct Leliana’s description, but I lift a palm, forestalling any words, and Morrigan subsides.

“Thank you,” The girl says to us, dropping into a graceless curtsey. I cannot help but think how difficult it is to be graceful when one’s knees are shaking too hard to even stand. 

“You are welcome,” I say to the girl sweetly. “I only wish I had arrived sooner, before these ruffians could hurt you.” She smiles, finally deciding that I am not a threat. “How did you come to be here?” I ask her, gesturing at the jumbled camp.   
Tears fill her eyes. “I were with my ma at Ostagar,” she says, choking back sobs “camp followers for the King’s guard we were, with the scullery.” She stops and her hands curl into fists. “The armies, they marched out and left the King, left the camps without no warnings to us. We saw the flames in the tower, thems the signal to charge, we heard every Knight say it. Only they didn’t charge, they turned and marched for Denerim. Then them darkspawns came up from below, and the Mages made walls of fire, the Templars told us to run, and we grabbed what we could and we ran. Days and nights we ran, across the King’s Road and into the fields. We tried to find shelter and food at farmsteads, but the army marching back to Denerim stripped it all bare, they did. We turned the other way, ma and I. Only yesterday, ma sat down and wouldn’t get back up. ‘Doomed’ she says ‘we’s all doomed, and there ain’t no Grey Wardens left to save us and put down the Blight.’ And she closed her eyes, and wouldn’t talk no more. And wouldn’t help me build a fire, and wouldn’t even stir when the sun came up and I brought her good water. And then her hands was cold, and her face was cold, and I knew she wouldn’t get up no more, and I ran, and I ran, following the wagon tracks. And then I was too hungry and too thirsty, and I stopped to look for something to eat, and this big man grabs me and laughs and tells me all sorts of horrible things he’s going to do to me, and I kick and I punch, and he knocks me on the head and ties me up and next I know I were here.” The child holds Leliana’s hand through the whole telling, and I feel the tears flow down my cheeks.

“Not many Wardens survived,” I whisper to the child, resolutely, “but at least two of us did, and we will put down the Blight.”   
“You have our word.” Alistair says, stepping next to me and putting a hand on my shoulder.

“Well you’re not going to do it just by saying it,” Morrigan chides, finding her sharp tongue at last. “And if that child goes about telling what she knows, someone will silence her permanently.”

I put a hand on Alistair’s chest before he can retort. “She’s right,” I tell him sadly, and look back at Tessa, drying my eyes on the sleeve of my robe, “You should tell the Revered Mother, and no one else what you have been through. We will take you to the Lothering Chantry tonight so you can, and in the morning, find a place in any caravan heading to Denerim or Redcliffe. Lothering will not be safe for long.

The child nods at me, determination and courage lighting her eyes. 

“Now,” I say, taking all of my companions in my sweeping gaze, “let us see what all we can salvage on this trap and get it and the girl to the town. 

As we gather parcels of food and useful goods, I pull Morrigan aside for a moment. “Morrigan,” I whisper urgently, “I hate to ask it, but do you know any forms that could make pulling this trap easier?” She glares at me, “I am no beast of burden,” she snaps disdainfully. “I know that, and I realize what I ask is beneath you,” I say in my most mollifying tone, “It’s only that if you have such a form, it is the most practical way to ensure we arrive back in the town with the girl and the goods while still having the energy to defend ourselves should we need.” 

“We could simply leave it all,” she retorts.

“We could,” I agree, “but I mean those goods to buy us horses, unless you truly desire to walk all the way to Redcliffe?”

“A fair point,” she concedes with a sigh. “I have one form that may do, but it is not ideal.” 

“As long as it is more efficient than my puny legs,” I say with a grin.

She smiles, and begins to chant, waving her arms as she casts.

The shimmering and light I have grown used to with her transformations clears, and I am staring into the eight eyes of a spider the size of a warhorse. 

After a few surprised blinks, I grin. “That form is more than ideal. I tell her conversationally, while walking back with her to the trap, not only can you pull the load, you can weave the necessary harness straps and secure the goods.”

Morrigan makes a rude gesture with two forelegs, and snaps her mandibles at me, unamused. I simply chuckle, and we return to the rest of the party in silence.

It takes a moment to calm Tessa when I return with Morrigan in her new form, and she is jittery until Morrigan is done weaving harness straps and secured to the Trap. 

Alistair looks as though he is about to make a snide comment, and I hold a finger to his lips, saying “No.” in my best rendition of the First Enchanter’s tone for scolding apprentices. “If you mock her now, you’re pulling that trap all the way to Lothering while she rides.” 

Alistair’s eyes go round, and look hurt, so I relent and plead a little. “It was really hard to convince her to be so useful, I need this to work to make it easier next time. Please.” 

“Fine,” he says finally with a dramatically exaggerated sigh.

“Thank you,” I say, gripping his hands in relief.

The five of us pick our way slowly back toward Lothering in the gathering twilight, first following the river until we round the base of the hillock we climbed earlier. 

As we clear the edge of the hillock, we see several wandering groups of men and mabari. I initially dismiss them as other groups out to collect on the bounty for bandits, until they spy Leliana and Alistair walking point and charge us.

I tell Morrigan to stay with the cart and protect Tessa, if it comes to that, and make Tessa promise to hide at the cart for now, then I run ahead with Alistair and Leliana.

Leliana stops where she was standing when the mabari started their charge. She confidently pulls an arrow from the quiver on her back, nocking, drawing, aiming, and loosing in a single fluid motion, which she repeats calmly as if on a target range. Alistair, meanwhile, has loosed the bolt already loaded, spearing a charging mabari right through the eye, and dropped the unwieldy weapon in favor of his sword. I rush up and help him fasten his shield before turning my gaze on the men. The mabari are already all down, I see. The last lays lifeless, not three paces from Leliana’s feet, as she stands, still loosing arrows as though she has no other concern in the world.

I focus my power on the closest man, forming the experimental weave I used earlier, only much more quickly and efficiently. I am rewarded by agonized howls that stop the other would-be bandits in their tracks momentarily. That moment is all Leliana needs to aim and wound two of them critically. Alistair closes the distance with another pair, and lays into them with his sword. I take aim with my will, focusing it through my staff to send bolts of destructive energy, weakening the two swordsmen as Alistair engages them. Alistair probably never needed my aid, I muse as I see him bash one to the ground with his shield, and turn to slash at the other. However, we really have no time for prolonged battles, I decide, focusing my will as I did earlier in the tavern so that Alistair’s spirit forms sharp and solid along his blade. His next swing parts the chain of his opponent’s coif, laying open both jugulars, and the man falls back in a spray of gore. The other has recovered his feet and aims a thrust at Alistair’s chest that my friend casually brushes aside with his shield. Alistair follows the block with a downward slice of his own blade, cleaving the other man from shoulder to hip, boiled leather parting under the blade as though it were butter. Alistair cleans his blade upon the cloth sleeve of the leather-clad man, and sheathes it with a snap of finality. I turn back and call the all-clear to Tessa and Morrigan. 

They appear around the hillock a moment later, the girl walking confidently alongside the great spider, seeming to have made her peace with her odd companion for the moment. Alistair, Leliana, and I pick over the new corpses quickly, retrieving pouches of silver, usable weapons, and enough arrows to keep Leliana through a month of battles like this one. One of the men has a map on his person with scrawled notes ordering patrol between two marked camps. As one is the camp we have just cleared, I feel absolved of any guilt for slaughtering the now-confirmed bandit patrol.

I show the map to my companions, and we move quietly and carefully in that direction. The sun is set, but a great harvest moon is rising as my projected consciousness touches upon the unmistakable essence of men camped within the edge of a cornfield. Tessa, having finally decided that I am not some fearsome creature after all, has consented to guide me and keep me moving forward as I quest out with my senses. As I touch upon the energies of the men, I gasp and pull her protectively behind me. Morrigan clacks her mandible in warning, and Alistair and Leliana drop to a knee, not yet able to discern any of the enemies in the camp ahead. Alistair reaches in a pouch at his belt and produces the looking glass that I remember from the Tower of Ishal. I had assumed it lost. He scans the horizon and makes a signal confirming enemy forces. I turn to Tessa and Morrigan, and again command for the girl to stay with the wagon and Morrigan to keep her safe. The girl shudders as we hear an entire pack of wolves howling in the distance, but she nods in agreement and steps in close to the wagon.

I run ahead to Leliana and Alistair, staying as low as I can. Like the other camp, this one has a campfire in the center, and most of the assembled men are staring fortuitously toward it. Unlike the other camp, this one has sentries posted who are staring outward, away from the night-vision-ruining flames. There are three sentries in total, and I suggest to Alistair and Leliana that if we focus our fire on each in turn, we may be able to take each down without alerting the camp. They quickly agree, and on my mark, we release crossbow bolt, arrow, and missile of pure will into the first of the watchmen. He falls to the ground, too far away to determine if he has made a sound. The other sentries do not look toward his post, so we are fairly certain our attack was undetected. Alistair reloads the crossbow, and we move stealthily across the green to line up shots on the next watcher. A heartbeat after my signal, the second falls, and we repeat for the third. We must draw closer to the camp for a clear shot at the last sentry, and we move with almost painful slowness so as not to be heard. Our effort is rewarded, as he too falls, a heartbeat after my signal. We creep right to the edge of the cornfield, and I ask Alistair and Leliana to steady me as I reach out with my power. There are no innocents in this camp as in the first, I can feel the sickly twist of malicious intent in each of the men around the fire. I am unsure whether it is more or less distasteful than the darkspawn taint, but I resolve not to think about that now. I mutter the incantation for the bomb, forcing my will into the most central figure in the camp. I feel him startle as the catalyst takes hold, changing his life force into pure destructive energy. I keep my will and my senses there until he begins shrieking. The bandits come alive at the shrieks, some rushing toward the man in agony, others scurrying about to find weapons. “Hold,” I whisper breathlessly as the shrieking grows more agonized. “Hold,” I whisper, even as I help Alistair buckle on his shield. “Hold,” I whisper once more as Leliana makes as though to rise and fire, the shrieks from inside the camp joined by a cacophony of questions and commands. 

The explosion splits the night, and we hear the pattering sound of gore raining down upon the cornfield. “Now” I whisper to my companions, and they rise. Leliana has arrow to string already, and draws it smoothly as she stands, taking aim and firing in less time than it takes me to draw 2 breaths.

Alistair charges, and I focus my will to keen his blades. Once, twice, five times in total, I feel his spirit-reinforced steel sever the fabric of another life force. Leliana fires only three fatal arrows before silence falls over the camp. I draw my will back to myself, and send Leliana to call the all-clear to our companions. I pull my knees to my chest and cross my arms over them, resting my head wearily. Moments later, Alistair wades out of the cornfield and falls to one knee next to me. “Can you stand?” He asks me, concern and weariness both thick in his voice. 

“In a moment,” I whisper, lacking the energy to speak louder, “but I hope this is the last of them, because I have nothing left.” I close my eyes for a moment, and when I open them, his warmth is no longer at my side. I hear rustling in the cornfield behind me. Beside me I hear two sets of soft boots move toward me, just ahead of the skittering of eight small feet and four wheels squeaking in protest of their unaccustomed load.

I close my eyes again, and just breathe for a few more moments. When I open my eyes again, I find myself on my back, with my head pillowed upon something soft, and surrounded by four concerned faces. “Are you all well?” I ask in confusion, and am rewarded by three nervous chuckles and one set of rolled eyes.

“You are not entirely healed from your wounds at Ostagar,” Morrigan’s voice accuses from beside me. 

“It does take more than a few crossbow bolts to end me,” I counter, my voice sounding weak even to my own ears.

“Oh, but there was more,” Morrigan chides back. “The two bolts through your shoulders, half a dozen arrows, the crack in your skull, perhaps from a fall, and on top of it all, mother had to pluck that fool from atop you. Tis a surprise his weight did not crush the last of your life right out.” I grin at her description.

“See,” I whisper, “tougher than I look.” 

“Undoubtedly,” she harangues, “but you should not exhaust yourself running about doing the Templars’ work for them.  
“Drink,” is all I hear from Alistair, though I can see his worried eyes directly above mine. I realize that must mean I am cradled in his lap, but I am far too tired to consider any implications. I feel the vial pressed to my lips, and I drink deeply, recognizing the sharp taste of elfroot. “Drink,” the soft command is repeated, as the vial is replaced with a waterskin.  
In moments I feel the elfroot at work, helping knit together myriad internal injuries strained and reopened by the day’s exertions.

“Thank you,” I whisper, closing my eyes again.

When I open my eyes, I must blink a few times to be sure they are open. All is darkness. I close them again and reach out with my other senses. First I hear soft, rhythmic breathing to either side of me, and then I recognize the warmth suffusing me as bodyheat. I touch lightly upon the bodies pressed to mine, Leliana to my left, Tessa to my right. I reach out further into the night, and feel red earth and burnished steel holding back a corrupting darkness. Alistair is nearby and watchful, and just beyond him is the deep woods and animal fur of Morrigan’s signature. 

I attempt to sit up, but the moment I do, four bodies are suddenly close to mine, and four voices are whispering “No, rest.” I cannot summon the will to argue, and I lay back on what is obviously a sleeping pallet, closing my eyes. 

I open my eyes moments later, shivering in the sudden chill of midnight, even through the travelling cloak tucked snugly around me. The bodies which had been pressed to either side of me are gone. It is all I can do to keep my teeth from chattering together. “I don’t care how much you loathe each other,” I hear Leliana’s voice sharp in the darkness, along with the heavy, metallic sound that reminds me of Cailan’s gauntlets dropping to the carpets of his tent. “I know you both respect Tethys, and you will do your duty to keep her alive tonight.” 

“Fine, but if he so much as touches me, I will cut his hands off,” Morrigan’s voice cuts through the night’s stillness.  
“If I ever touched you,” I hear Alistair’s biting retort, “I would cut my own hands off.” 

I’m too cold even to chuckle, and I lose the battle with my teeth, their chattering obviously breaking the standoff as two very warm bodies slip down beside mine on the pallet, my travelling cloak being spread to allow for direct contact. Three cloaks spread like blankets over us, and I fade back into sleep.

A kick in my right ankle wakes me well before dawn. A large body thrashes next to mine, and it takes me a moment to realize it is Alistair. I lift my right hand, placing it upon his shoulder, large and firm even without his armor. I press my will toward his, calling his essence to calm, reassuring him that I am here. I feel the slimy tug of the taint within him calling out in turn to that caged within my soul, and I bear down with my will, screaming “NO” within my mind. The Archdemon essence within me cowers down within its soul cage, but that within Alistair resists, and I must call to his spirit to help me bind it. This would probably be easier with him awake, I determine, due to his Templar training. He deserves restful sleep every bit as much as I, however, which is my last truly conscious thought for some time.

The next conscious thought I have is that the lithe muscles beneath my hand are incredibly warm, and my whole body is incredibly aware of that small contact. I snatch my hand away and tear my way free of the traveling cloaks. I hear an amused chuckle from my left as Morrigan rolls out from beneath her cloak on that side. “I am certain I would rather die than wake next to him,” she mutters to me, “I am glad you had to experience it and not I.” 

“His body heat is very useful when one cannot create her own,” I whisper back, defending Alistair in terms Morrigan can appreciate.

“Tis fortunate I have an affinity for fire then,” She counters, completely unwilling to grant Alistair any positive attributes.

“Tis fortunate you do,” I reply, “or you would have been little use last night, and he would have had to hold me.”

Morrigan looks at me, horror-stricken. “I would not wish that on darkspawn,” she gasps, “let alone someone I actually like.”

We giggle quietly as we walk toward Leliana and Tessa, who are attempting to build and light a cook fire in the low light of breaking dawn. I look back at Alistair guiltily, though. Truth be told, he is a beautiful man, and I would not mind in the least waking in his arms. He was a Templar, though, and would probably have considered my assistance last night an unforgivable violation, regardless of how beautiful I know he thinks I am.

“You do it all wrong,” Morrigan grumbles in exasperation at our fire-building companions, pulling me out of my thoughts and back into the early morning chill. She stalks over to the others and drops to her knees. “Like this,” she snaps, slapping aside the pile of small twigs the others have arranged and showing them a more efficient build.

I turn away, gazing at our surroundings as the morning shadows recede, trying to get my bearings. Movement on the ground draws my attention, and I feel myself grin as I see Alistair reach out for the spot I recently occupied, and sit upright with a start. I am at his back, so I cannot see his face, but the urgency with which he jumps up and begins looking about for me is gratifying.

“Good Morning, Alistair,” I say, smiling warmly at him, and feeling my heart swell at the relief in his eyes when he looks at me. He slowly, shyly returns my smile, and then looks down at his toes, the tops of his ears faintly pink. “Come help with breakfast,” I request gently, beckoning him toward me with one hand, before I turn toward our fire-building companions.


	9. Fear and Lothering in Lost Thedas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares. Battles. Exposition. Flirtation. Everything you need to put the nail in the coffin of the time before our intrepid adventurers were responsible for the fate of all Thedas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cannon quotations used in this section because no matter how hard I try, I can't think of better ones.

Small flames lick cheerily up the sides of mid-sized kindling, and Morrigan is just adding the first of three small fuel logs from a tidy pile nearby. “Where are we? I ask,” not certain I recognize anything around. 

There are several cornfields about us, in varied stages of growth, and we appear to be on the edge of a greenway close to the most mature field, or at least the one with the tallest stalks and largest ears. A rough semi-circle of crates and parcels piled about waist-high separates us from the rest of the greenway, and I see a distinct path of crushed stalks curving through the field behind us, though is twists make determining its terminus impossible.

“Near the field where you wore yourself out killing bandits,” Alistair says gently, as he walks up to my side at the fire.

“I am sorry about that,” I say, feeling somewhat puny and ashamed. “Thank you,” I say, raising my voice a little louder and pitching it to carry. “Thank all of you. I owe to you my very life.” My companions are mostly gracious, though Morrigan tosses some barbs at me, questioning my sense. All in all, our breakfast passes without incident and we find ourselves back at the rear gates of Lothering just as they open for the morning. I release the wards from our handcart, and pull it merrily along behind the trap, which requires all four of my companions to move since we dare not have Morrigan change her shape so close to the village.

Within the village, we transfer all the scavenged weapons and armor to the handcart and send Morrigan to barter for coin and horses. The rest of us take the liberated foodstuffs and useful items along with Tessa to the village Chantry. Several Templars gladly come to our aid to deliver the goods. 

Lothering’s Revered Mother is impressed by the donation of scavenged goods we make to her efforts toward clothing and feeding the displaced, and gladly gives us the bounty set for the bandits. She is also forthcoming with the key to Sten’s cage when Leliana asks for it with reassurance that our party will use the Qunari for the good of all. The Revered Mother also gladly takes Tessa under her care and listens to our urgent advice to flee Lothering en-masse for one of the larger cities. She gives us no promise as to whether she will heed our council, but Tessa has already promised, and she is the one we wish most to save.

On our way to rejoin Morrigan, Leliana points out that there are a few more bounties on the Chanter’s board, so we take them. We also intercede in a squabble between one of the Chantry Sisters and an avaricious merchant who has been price-gouging the needy. It takes only a few of the correct persuasive words to remind him that those who survive will long remember which merchants cheat them, and that refugees are mobile advertisement for good or ill. Fair market values restored, we work our way back toward the inn.

Morrigan has done well, extremely well considering the circumstances in beleaguered Lothering. She has secured mule accused of ill-temper and a small, but sturdy, cart. We shall be on foot to Redcliffe, but at least we need not bear the weight of the food, water, and supplies necessary for the trip. She has also secured us a commission if we can concoct some poison for a local farmer’s traps.

We unlock Sten’s prison on our way back out the gates, and make our first stop at our camp from the night before. We load several crates of food and an entire barrel of salt on our wagon that Leliana and Morrigan had earmarked just for this purpose, and Alistair and Sten pick over crate and corpse alike to find armor and weapons that at least come close to fitting Sten’s great form. We manage everything save boots, and so Sten is relegated to wagon duty for our day of bear and spider hunting. 

Our morning of bear and spider hunting as it turns out. Leliana’s skill at firing into melee with a bow is impressive, but it holds no candle to her prowess at the hunt. Three arrows from careful cover render three mortally wounded bears. The creatures had developed a taste for children it seems, and the bounty for their hides is a hefty purse as well as the finest sword I have ever laid eyes on.

Sten is relegated to skinning, butchering, and preserving as much bear meat as we can manage, and I ask Morrigan to assist, doing my utmost to make the request sound as though it is an honor being granted. She sees through me, but she is also just as aware as I that we will all need to eat, and she has the best chance of obtaining usable rations from the beasts.

Alistair, Leliana, and I venture onward to slay some spiders, which turns out to be surprisingly simple, even if they are the size of draft horses. Collecting their venom for the commission on poisons is tricksome, but Leliana and Alistair have both done it before for reasons neither care to explain to me. Thus, I learn the process quickly. 

Leliana and Alistair get on quite well together. I chuckle to hear some good-natured ribbing about Chantry life. Alistair did not fit there well to hear him tell it. He opposed the quiet and rigidity of society within the walls. He tells me he enjoyed the training and meditation. Leliana enjoyed the quiet, the contemplation. She tells me she felt at home among the other Lay-Sisters, and I could see from even their brief exchange yesterday that Leliana had genuine affection and respect for her Revered Mother.

I find myself chuckling as Alistair explains that his time in the Chantry was so quiet he would occasionally start screaming and screaming until one of the Templar came running. He disintegrates into laughter himself when describing the priceless looks on the respondent’s face each time he explained he was “just checking.” I hide myself behind the spider I’m working on, clutching my own belly and trying not to let Leliana hear how hard I am laughing at her expression from Alistair’s telling. My spirit lifts with the laughter. I have not had a good belly laugh since before my Harrowing, and I used to have such a grand sense of humor. Alas, this very thought sobers me, as many of my deep belly laughs in the Tower were shared with Jowan or Cullen, and any thought touching on either of my old friends brings mixed and troubling emotion.

On our walk back between spiders and bears, I catch Leliana giving Alistair that long heel-to-scalp gaze used to assess a man for potential as a future lover. I am surprised by this, and feel almost a flutter of possessiveness toward Alistair. I resolve to explore this strange emotion when we are not trying to collect a bounty before nightfall.

Morrigan and Sten have managed to work together well, despite Morrigan having little more liking for Sten than she does Alistair, as well as Sten’s conviction that Morrigan is a dangerous beast. Qunari are even less accepting of natural magical gifts than we humans it seems. The first two bears have been handily skinned, and the entire first bear butchered and packed into a deep pit. Sten is gathering wood to build the cookfire atop the barbecue pit as we approach.  
Morrigan has the second bear about halfway butchered, apparently she had much prior experience butchering wild game for her mother. She calls to us to help slice the meat of the second bear into thin strips for salting and drying. Leliana and I set right to the task of reducing the cuts of bear to thin strips, redirecting Alistair to build us a suitable rack for drying the strips. As soon as he finishes, I leave off slicing to salt the strips already cut, handing them to Alistair so he can lay them out. The idea is that we will move this rack over the pit fire once it is burned down slightly so that we can smoke cure our bear.

Morrigan is finished with the butchery of the second bear and skinning the third before Leliana, Alistair, and I can even start the curing on half of the second bear. Sten has the pit fire raging about the time Morrigan moves to butchering the third bear Alistair, Leliana, and I pause in the preservation of bear two to help lay out bear three’s skin, fur-side to the ground, and help Morrigan scrape most of the gore away, preparing the skin to accept the butchered carcass.

We turn back to the prepping of bear jerky as Morrigan begins the actual butchery. Alistair, Leilana, and I finally have bear two reduced to strips of salted, drying meat about the same time as Morrigan completes her dissection of bear three. Sten is busily stoking the fires on bear one, and we leave him to it, as it will likely take the day and the night to cook through. The other four of us parcel out the cuts of bear three equally atop each skin and bind them up as securely as we can. Morrigan uses her control of the elements to freeze these parcels as though they sat for a night in a snowbank, and then the four of us undertake the task of finding sufficient firewood for Sten to continue the cooking through the rest of the day and night. 

As Morrigan seems to tolerate Sten’s presence better than Alistairs, I ask her to stay and defend the cookfire with Sten, taking Leliana and Alistair with me to deliver the bear skins for their bounties, and hopefully barter the meat in Lothering for other much needed supplies.

The reward for just showing the three bear skins to the chantry is quite rich, and we parcel out the bear meat from one skin to the Chantry. The Revered Mother looks on this in approval and does us the great kindness of having Sten’s boots returned to us so that we can effectively travel. We also manage to find one of Arl Eamon’s knights in the Chantry, researching the Urn of Sacred Ashes. I am shocked to hear of Arl Eamon’s illness, and I immediately suspect that there is court intrigue afoot.

My soul contracts in horror when a conversation with the Knight-Commander of the local Templar order reveals that the Rite of Annulment has been requested for the Ferelden Circle. My friends, my mentors all stare summary execution in the face, and no one here seems to know why. I have the distinct urge to head overland to the tower this very second, but practicality prevails. The tower is an effective two weeks from here with a swift horse. Redcliffe is only four days at a sedate pace along the King’s Road, and one more day over water from Redcliffe’s docks to the tower ferry. I can reach my friends faster if I hold to Allistair’s plan. I keep repeating this to myself, even as we divide the trading responsibilities. 

Leliana is able to negotiate for the poisons a price even higher than the bounty on the bears. Better yet, Alistair is able to leverage just one parcel worth of bear meat into a full sized supply wagon. I trade the las parcel, plus our recalcitrant mule for a draft horse and enough hay, oats, and barley to keep the horse and six humans fed at least as far as Redcliffe villiage. I am still trying to figure out how to load the bearskins and all the supplies onto a single horse, when Alsitair arrives to tell me of success on the wagon. He takes the horse, and brings back the wagon as well as a fat-pursed Leliana to load my spoils. We trade the three now-empty bear skins to a tanner for enough coin to buy three sizable casks and two good barrels from the cooper. Leliana is an absolute wonder to behold in negotiation. Alistair is also suitably impressed, and I catch him giving Leliana the same assessing gaze she directed at him only this morning. I feel a pang in my chest at that, possibly jealousy. I cannot tell, having never actually felt it before. I just know in that moment that I wish he would look at me that way. I recover my wits quickly, calling myself a harlot for so easily casting aside Cailan’s memory. Though as he is dead and I fell upon the same day, I held to my oath. That I never should have given the oath to a King, and a married one at that is more guilt than I can bear and I turn my thoughts solidly to the present.

I send my companions ahead to buy salt, oil, vinegar and honey. I follow my nose to some freshly baked breads. I also pick up a few moderately sized wheels of cheese and small crock of butter before meeting the joyfully successful Alistair and Leliana at the gates. They are openly flirting when I arrive. Or rather Leliana is openly flirting while Alistair blushes and attempts to change the subject. I know he is a couple years my elder, but there is something about the man that is so endearing that I just want to hold and protect him. I am pondering this emotion when a sweetly sad and vulnerable look sweeps across Leliana’s face. Alistair is looking elsewhere in that moment, and he has not yet noted my presence. I watch, and see the look masterfully suppressed as Alistair turns back to her. My heart tugs for Leliana as well. 

Once again, however, it is not the time to dwell on my own thoughts, but to get us out and upon the road as soon as we are able.

Well before dusk, we are back at the cookfire, and I am able to return Sten’s boots and take over the fire, sending Sten and Alistair to fill the casks in the nearby stream. As the sun begins to set, the fires have burned low enough, and sufficient hot coals are prepared that we place green boughs across them and working together, lift the drying meat over the smoke. Alistair and Morrigan are forced to take first watch together, as neither trusts the other enough to sleep while the other watches. We all agree that Sten deserves to have a full night’s rest, as he was ten days in his cage without one. This leaves Leliana and I on second watch together, tending the fire and guarding our companions, for we cannot leave without our rations, and there is far too much meat to be finished before morning.

We sit together and lay out the travel strategy over a meal of vegetable stew, or last remaining cabbages, bread, butter, fresh caught fish, and the rest of our berries. I find I am ravenous, and feel suddenly glad that we will have two full bears worth of meat on the morrow. Sleep should not be difficult to find after such repast, I think as I lay my bedroll upon the ground a comfortable distance from the roasting pit. My supposition is correct, as I hear no more than a single irritable exchange between Alistair and Morrigan before all is darkness. 

Roaring and unintelligible whispers fill my dreams. I gaze upon chasms deep within the earth flowing with the light of hundreds of thousands of torches bourn by troops of darkspawn seeking their way to the surface. Over it all, a great horned dragon calls commands I cannot interpret. I cannot understand, but I sense that the dragon knows I watch. I sense she is glad to be observed and wants me to be awed and intimidated by the size of her armies. I sense that she wants me to abandon hope and resistance, to give over to the bit of her I carry within me and march with her legions. I scream my defiance into the darkness. My will, my resistance, my very essence forming one word, “Never!”

I wake from a slumber in which I have thrashed myself free of my bedroll, and only Alistair’s kneeling form next to me has kept me from rolling into the fires. 

“Bad dreams, huh,” he whispers to me.

“It… seemed so real,” I mutter, looking up into his eyes and seeking comfort, understanding. What I seek is there, along with compassion, empathy, and regret. The regret surprises me, and I study him questioningly.

“It is real,” he finally replies. “The Archdemon, it ‘talks’ to the horde, and we feel it just as they do. That's why we know this is really a Blight.”

“The Archdemon,” I muse aloud, “that was the dragon. I should have recognized its essence from the Joining.”

He nods thoughtfully, regret haunting the back of his gaze and concern flickering in the fore. “Anyhow,” he says after clearing his throat, “when I heard you thrashing around, I thought I should tell you.” He rushes through the explanation, wringing his hands as though he would rather do anything other than tell me the extent of the curse I have taken on. “It was scary at first for me, too,” he continues, open empathy and request for forgiveness written in every line of his face.

“Thank you, Alistair,” I tell him earnestly, reaching out to still his wringing hands. “I appreciate it.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” he quips, “to deliver bad news and witty one-liners.” The relief in his eyes is genuine, though. 

“Well,” I tell him with a wicked grin, “I’m up now, so you’ll get to face the dragon in my place soon enough.”

He shudders, only half mocking.

“How did you become a Grey Warden, anyway,” I ask in attempt to focus on anything other my dream, already knowing at least part of the tale from my time with Duncan. 

“Same as you,” he begins flippantly, “you drink some blood. You choke on it. You pass out. You haven’t forgotten already have you?”

I chuckle wryly, knowing I walked right into that. “Very funny,” I tell him with a warm smile.

“I do my best,” he preens. “Well what can I say? I was in the Chantry before that,” he says with a little more sobriety. “I trained for many years to be a Templar, in fact. That’s where I learned most of my skills.”

“And just what skills might those be?” I question in a soft, husky voice, recalling his delightful blushes earlier during Leliana’s flirtation. I’m rewarded with a similar blush now, and a nervous chuckle. For some reason that sets up a warm smouldering in my soul, centered near my heart.

He clears his throat, ears blushing, and fidgets uncomfortably for a moment before bringing our discussion back to the Chantry and the Revered Mother that refused to let him go until Duncan invoked the Right of Conscription. That memory quickly wipes the grin from his lips and the blush from his cheeks, and we find ourselves once again in maudlin waters, discussing Duncan and the fate of so many brave souls at Ostagar.

I need the contact every bit as much as I know he does when I reach out my hand and take his once more, offering words of comfort that I don’t even hear over the pounding of my heart as I gaze into his eyes. “Before the Chantry,” my voice is as gravelly as my throat is dry, “you said Arl Eamon raised you?”

“Did I say that?” He asks, turning cunning grin on me in a face suffused with gratitude for the change of subject. “I meant that dogs raised me. Giant, slobbering dogs from the Anderfels. A whole pack of them in fact.”  
“Really?” I ask, trying to suppress my mirth and project sincerity as I play along. When he gets to the description of licking himself clean until he was eight, I lose my ability to hold back the mirth. We’re both chuckling as he attempts to chalk his poor table manners up to being raised by dogs, only to recall that they were identical to every other teenaged boy among the Templar Initiates.

“Or did I dream all that?” He asks rhetorically, looking back to the fire and continuing while I try to regather my overflowing good humor. “Funny the dreams you’ll have when you sleep on the cold, hard ground, isn’t it?” He pauses and meets my gaze for a moment. “Are you having any strange dreams?”

I open my mouth to remind him of the darkspawn, but the sudden image of his body shielding and cradling my own in his own dream flashes through my memory. I recall the glowing beauty his mind painted me with, and the surge of possessiveness, even jealousy I felt with his and Leliana’s flirtation, and my mouth forms the words before I think them. “Only the ones where you save me from certain death and then we…” My eyes meet his, and I know he can see the desire flickering down in the depths of my gaze.

“I… uh… oh…” he starts, stops, swallows, readjusts his armor, and meets my eyes again slowly. “I think I…” he trails off, his golden gaze lost in the pools of my own lavender for a moment. I find myself hoping he will close the distance between us, share contact when we are both alert enough to enjoy it. “…completely lost my train of thought…” he whispers breathily. He takes a step toward me, and all the world and care burns away in the golden flames of his gaze. I prepare for a kiss, my face tilting up and to the side, invitingly. 

“Blech…” Morrigan’s voice, lifted in a sound of abject disgust, cuts through our moment from across the fire pit.

“Oh,” Alistair mutters, “there it is.” He swallows and steps away. 

I turn to see Morrigan looking at me with an expression that reads “you will thank me later. I just saved you a fate worse than the Blight.”

I roll my eyes and shake my head. 

Alistair gazes at the fire, his hands holding his elbows, and he paces a few steps away and back. “Let’s see,” he continues his answer from my earlier question. “How do I explain this? I’m a bastard.” Morrigan’s throat clears on the other side of the fire pit. Alistair glares at her and turns to me. “And before you make any smart comments, I mean the fatherless kind.”

The word “fatherless” sits hard in the apex of my heart. My father was only a by-line in an age-yellowed note from my mother. I had no memory at all of him, not even a name to call him by.

I’m barely focusing on the words as Alistair begins to earnestly explain his birth to a serving girl in Redcliffe castle. The young Arlessa took quite the dislike to him, likely because she assumed he was the Arl’s bastard, which Alistair vehemently denies. I cannot help but be riveted, however by the time he explains how the Arlessa tormented him until he was almost happy that she packed him off to the Chantry at age ten.

I study the softening lines of Alistair’s face as he recalls the pain with mingled bitter-sweet longing for the only thing he’d ever known as a home. I know all too well his pain at being sent away into the cold arms of strangers. He was ten, old enough to have processed and internalized the rejection of his banishment, but not old enough to understand or entirely forgive it. I had been only six, young enough to remember only some of what it was to be a daughter and not just a potentially dangerous burden.

“Just as well,” he continues, “The Arlessa despised me.”

My heart breaks at the flippant way he describes such rejection even though his eyes reflect the warring emotions of loss and anger. I revise my earlier estimation. He understood the rejection and cause all too well, even as a child. “What an awful thing to do to a child,” I find myself saying, reliving my own shrieking cries as I stretched out my arms, pleading for my mother who slowly disappeared in the crowded streets as vise-like arms clasped my struggling body, bearing me away. There had been tears in her eyes, and it took four steel-clad Templar to hold her back. I could hear my own name raised in my mother’s agonized wail as the Knight-Captain savagely silenced my magic, naming me “demon-bait.”

“Maybe,” Alistair shrugs away my perceived sympathy. He turns away to add a bit of fuel to a part of the fire burning too low. When he turns back to me, a wistful look passes across his eyes, softening and raising his brow. “I remember I had an amulet with Andraste’s holy symbol on it,” he tells me with a soft smile. “The only thing I had of my mother’s. I was so furious at being sent away I tore it off and threw it at the wall, and it shattered.” Pain and loss haunts his eyes. “Stupid, stupid thing to do.”

“You were young…” I whisper softly, consolingly.

“And raised by dogs,” he reminds me of our prior conversation with a trembling grin, “or may as well have been, the way I acted. But maybe all young bastards act like that. I don’t know.” He smiles at me, nodding in thanks for my understanding. He changes the subject then, singing Arl Eamon’s praises, and finding hope in the possibility that we will have a staunch ally against Loghain.

“Thank you for sharing with me, Alistair,” I whisper, not even sure he can hear me. I turn and gaze into the fire when what I truly want to do is throw my arms about him and swear that I shall never reject him. There is something in his unguarded vulnerability that makes me trust my fellow Grey Warden. I also recall his determined look and fearsome challenge as he leapt from my shields onto the chest of the Ogre in the Tower of Ishal, and the way he reached for me upon waking after using his own body heat to save my life. A bond has kindled between us, and I hope for once in my young life that there might be a future in that bond.

“Morrigan,” I call out to the other side of the fire, “It’s my watch. You and Alistair should rest.” I turn to Alistair again, warmth and longing radiating in my eyes. “Go wake Leliana and get yourself some sleep. We press on for Redcliffe tomorrow, as you suggested.” I am rewarded with a new light in Alistair’s eyes, and a smile less self-effacing, and more self-confident than any I have yet seen.

Leliana and I stoke the fire, keeping it burning low with plenty of hot coals, and adding dry wood and green leaf as necessary to smoke the meats above. These meats will go into the barrels in the morning before we press on to Redcliffe. Even with the fastest couriers, the approval and reinforcements for the Rite of Annulment will not arrive to the Tower before I do. At least I tell myself this over and over. Finally, in a desperate attempt to calm my ever-more-frazzled nerves, I ask Leliana to tell me more about her vision. She is evasive at first, and I find I must summon up all the ability at persuasion I possess.

“I don’t know how to explain...” she starts, her fine, copper eyebrows drawing in and down as if the telling itself is painful, “…but I had a dream. In it there was an impenetrable darkness. It was so dense, so real. And there was a noise, a terrible ungodly noise. I stood on a peak and watched as the darkness consumed everything. And when the storm swallowed the last of the sun’s light, I…” She shudders and swallows. “I fell, and the darkness drew me in.”

I can see the images as she describes them. I can see them not in the least because it was the content of my vision upon the Joining and the stuff of my fever-dreams during healing after Ostagar. “You dreamed of the Blight…” I whisper.

“I suppose I did,” she says, shrugging dismissively. “That was what the darkness was, no?” She looks to the fire, then stoops to add more green leaves. “When I woke,” she starts with a sigh, committing fully to the vulnerability of sharing, “I went to the Chantry’s gardens as I always do, but that day the rosebush in the corner had flowered. Everyone knew that bush was dead. It was grey and twisted and gnarled, the ugliest thing you ever saw, but there it was…” Her eyes look to the middle distance, and her voice softens. She seems suffused in an aura of peace and light as she focuses and turns to me. “…a single beautiful rose, as though the Maker stretched out his hand to say ‘Even in the midst of this darkness, there is hope and beauty. Have faith.’ In my dream, I fell…” she shrugs, looking to the fire and making gestures with her hands to indicate there is so much she cannot put into words, “… or maybe I jumped.” 

She is silent for a moment, before turning to me, defiance and determination aflame in her eyes, “I’d do anything to stop the Blight.” She straightens her shoulders and raises her chin, as if daring the darkness on the other side of the roasting pit to come for her. “I know we can do it. There are so many good things in the Maker’s world. How can I sit by while the Blight devours everything?”

“The Chantry teaches that the Maker has left us…” I whisper, wanting as I always have to believe those words false.

“He’s still here,” Leliana responds with absolute certainty and conviction. “I hear him in the wind and the waves. I feel him in the sunlight that warms my skin. I know what the Chantry says about the Maker, and what should I believe, what I feel in my heart? Or what others tell me?”

“Believe what feels right to you, Leliana,” I say with conviction. I stop myself from saying “because I want believe it too,” but the thoughts rebound within me, brightening the flame of my own resolve.

“Thank you,” she says, turning to me with unshed tears glistening in the deep azure pools of her eyes, “It’s nice to find someone who agrees. I know what I know, and no one will ever make that untrue.”

She walks off at these words, to patrol the other side of the roasting pit. Her words echo and re-echo within my soul, resounding with greater and greater truth each time. When she returns to my side, I ask her where she learned all the weapon skills she has managed to display over the last few days, and all the closeness and vulnerability of moments before is gone. Leliana makes up a tale about being a traveling minstrel and needing to defend herself on the road. I know there may be the smallest grain of truth, but she is evading and trying to hide within a carefully crafted cover story. Allowing her the security of believing her ruse effective, I ask her to tell me some of the stories she has gathered on her travels.

It is with relief and great relish that she tells me the story of Aveline. I had read many books on the history of Orlais in the Tower over the years, and I was familiar with the subject. No book I had read captured the narrative with such passion. Leliana’s voice paints the images as clearly in my mind as if I stood upon the Emperor’s right, watching the Grand Melee. Tears well and fall unashamedly when Leliana describes the valiant woman’s death. Hope surges through me when she speaks of the Emperor who changed the laws after seeing Aveline cut down, and the generations who still revere her today.

I thank Leliana, wiping my eyes upon my sleeve and completing my own circuit of the fire. When I return to Leliana, I stop her from putting another branch into the flames. When she looks at me curiously, I point to the soft, greyish tint of the far eastern horizon. The dawn is coming in a short while, and we will need the fire to die if we are to retrieve our rations. Leliana smiles at me, and we spend a time in companionable silence, watching the sky paint itself in myriad shades as the sun slowly crawls up to the horizon. Before the sun crests the horizon, I offer to watch the camp as she bathes in the nearby stream if she will do the same fore me after. She grins happily, confessing that she has longed for a bath for the last day. She gathers a small cake of sweetly scented soap we salvaged from a bandit camp, and a length of thick cloth, and races to the stream. 

I hear splashing and the faint strains of a sweet melody for a time as I watch the fires slowly die. It is not a great amount of time, however, before a mostly naked Leliana returns, wrapped in the length of cloth, with her lips vaguely blue and teeth chattering. She all but stands on the coals of the firepit to dry, and I help her back into her fighting leathers before taking the soap and heading for the stream myself.

The water is chill as I wade in, fully robed. I whisper the incantations to transfer all that soils my robe to the swiftly flowing stream, then the incantation to release myself from the robe itself. I wade to a tree with a branch overhanging the stream and throw my robe over to let it drip. Having warmed some from the effort, I plunge my whole self beneath the cool, clear water. I rise and lather myself with the soap cake, pushing the lather through hair and over skin, becoming intimately aware of my new scars for the first time. Great rounds of smooth, purple-pink flesh spot front and rear just proximal to my shoulders on both sides. I shiver, not from cold, as I touch these scars. These were the bolts of great crossbows, obviously pulled entirely through my body before healing. It is a testament to Flemeth’s skill that I am able to move either arm. Of course, it is a matter of inconceivable good fortune that neither pierced heart nor lung, else I would not be standing here marveling at the scars. I lose count of the smaller, puckered creases and fine pink lines of arrow removal that dot my thighs, arms, and ribcage. 

Surprisingly, my breasts and abdomen bear no scars. I assume that Allistair’s dream was accurate, and he shielded my body from the hail of arrows that came with the second wave of darkspawn to overrun us. I finish my ablutions quickly, diving back beneath the waters to rinse body and hair. I retrieve my robe, fastening the enchantments, and whispering spells to pull the remaining moisture from skin to robe to stream. I feel the touch of the Maker, as Leliana had mentioned, in the very fact that I live this moment. I offer silent prayer of thanksgiving as I ring my hair back into the stream and dry my feet upon a small square of soft cloth before slipping on clean socks and my boots.

When I return to the fireside, I send Leliana to wake Morrigan, still feeling that unexplainable possessiveness regarding Alistair, no matter how much I may like and respect Leliana. I cannot resist watching Alistair for a few moments before waking him. His stone-chiseled features, so somber and stiffly set between jests, softens in sleep, taking on the sweetness of the care-free young man I met at Ostagar. As I watch, his brows draw down and his lip curls in a fearsome snarl. He begins to thrash, as though he is wrestling some great beast. I recognize this struggle for what it is, he is wrestling with the Archdemon’s essence, remastering the taint. I kneel next to him, extending my will to bolster his own. His thrashing quiets, and his soft smile returns before I reach over and gently nudge his shoulder to wake him.

“It is time to wake,” I say to him gently, “the road waits for no man, and we have much distance to cover.” He reaches up and lays his hand over mine, eyes still closed and lips smiling as if in pleasant dream. The touch is chaste, gentle, but a feverish heat courses through my blood. I find myself breathless and uncomfortably aware that every last fiber of my being is reacting in mad longing for this man. 

“Alistair,” I groan breathlessly, fighting back an urge to lean down and kiss him awake. I just barely succeed, and try to tug my hand away, only to have him clasp it tighter.

“Tethys…” he whispers gently in his sleep, and I must fight urges all over again. 

For years I had admiration, affection, even secret desire for Cullen. For years I was able to coexist with him within the same walls without a constant fight not to touch him. Cailan had come to me, claimed me with passion and immediacy, amid reminders of how long he had waited for me and praise for my waiting for him. Yet he banished me from his side and I had gone dutifully and without hesitation. Why did I have such urges now? Why had these feelings become so pervasive that I must fight for the very self-control I mastered in my fourth and fifth years of life?

“It is time to be going,” I say to the still sleeping man with the tightness of self-restraint in my voice, even as I press his shoulder, shaking him gently.

“Tethys,” he whispers again, his eyebrows slowly knitting in confusion. “Tethys,” he whispers again, taking his hand from mine finally, and reaching up and out as if I am somewhere above him, beyond his reach, and moving away.

“I’m here, Alistair,” I say sternly next to him, as I press his shoulder one last time and remove my hand, “but I will have to go get Morrigan to help me douse you with cold water if you stay sleeping.”

His eyes spring open, a mix of sleep-laden confusion and alert wariness in their golden depths. I could fall into those pools of gold and lose myself if he asked.

“You wouldn’t, would you?” he asks in a horrified whisper.

“Not today,” I tell him, feeling a mischievous grin curl my lips. “Now go wake Sten. You two need to armor up and we have much work before leaving today.”

I try to rise and walk away, but he sits up, catching my hand before I have gotten far. “The Archdemon’s calls came in my dreams, and they were silenced. I’ve never quieted them in the last six months,” he lifts his eyes, meeting my lavender gaze, “that was you, wasn’t it?”

“I … I did not mean to invade…” I stutter, my heart fluttering like a trapped bird.

“Thank you,” he says, squeezing my hand while his tone warms with true gratitude.

“Any time,” I find myself whispering, lost again in his beautiful golden eyes.

“Well, we’re up now,” he says so quickly the words nearly tumble together. “Time to pull up camp and be on our way.” As he drops my hand and rushes away, I can see the tops of his ears turning pink with his blush.

I return to the roasting pit to find Morrigan and Leliana discussing how best to move the entire rack of drying bear without assistance. I shake my head at first, but then I reconsider. “This is a great opportunity to practice some skills I have been working on,” I tell them with a sly grin.

I assign Morrigan and Leliana to one corner of the rack on opposite sides of the pit, while I grasp the other end, stretching out my will and my spirit, lengthening my grasp to the entire side. I pour my emotion and my desires into the new weave, and believe myself strong and sure. “On the count of three,” I call out. “One!” I close my eyes, feeling my spirit wrap around the inanimate rack. “Two!” I tighten my grip and allow my will to surge along the lines of contact. “Three!” I open my eyes and lift with my will, gratified to see my end rise high enough to clear obstacles and move easily forward. “Come!” I call, and begin to walk slowly backward, keeping my reach extended and the rack aloft as I move it with each slow step away from the roasting pit.

I begin to fatigue just as Morrigan and Leliana clear the end of the still hot bed of coals. I push myself to move back several paces further and bid them swing wide, away from the coals, while I hold my end stationary but still aloft. When they have managed to turn the rack completely perpendicular to its prior position, I bid them set it down, and I do the same, drawing my will and spirit back within me. I am fatigued, as I was the other evening, but I feel no need to sit or collapse. I am, however, absolutely ravenous.

I turn to see Alistair staring at me, dumfounded. Sten is giving me the wary glare usually reserved for Morrigan. I smile at them both, and order them to unearth the roasted bear, as I feel like eating every last piece of it. Tension broken, my companions spring into action to do just as I have ordered. I would be in the way, so I go instead to the water casks and skins, availing myself of a long, cool draught, as well as a handful of the remaining nuts. Thus fortified, I fill the nose-bag for the horse with oats, and attach it, letting him gather his strength for a long day pulling wagons. I then lift an empty barrel and carry it to the side of the roasting pit, returning to take the other near the drying rack. I have just removed the lid, readying to fill it with salt-and-smoke-cured bear when I hear a cheer rise up from my companions.

I arrive at the side of the freshly excavated pit in time to receive the first beautifully roasted portion of bear haunch. It is warm and smells heavenly. Morrigan and Leliana have lain a fresh blanket of cleansed leaves upon the ground next to the pit, and we bring up and lay out portion after perfectly roasted portion of bear meat. When the men can find no more to pull from the ground, we all sit at the edge of the spread leaves and set to devouring. Bear is gamy and a little greasy, but in this moment, I could not care less. This is food, and my gut is growling long and low for it. I consume an entire roast myself, one that would likely feed a family of six for two meals, before my gut quiets. I wash it down with some pure, clean water from the nearby stream, and in going to clean, am happy to find several pockets of wild onions and garlics. I gather them, and place them, along with some of the aromatic herbs Morrigan has been carrying in layers between the remaining bear roasts in the waiting barrel. Morrigan has been overseeing the careful loading of layers of bear and salt in the other barrel. Morrigan is a wonder, as she is actually able to fit all but a handful of the strips of bear in her barrel. These last few strips go in the sack with the wheel of cheese and remaining aromatic herbs. I take special care loading everything, trying to convince myself that I have time to prepare for whatever we will face at Redcliffe and the Tower. It is all too soon time to push on, however, and without a backward glance, we harness horse to cart and head for the King’s Highway.

We can hear cries of fear and unmistakable darkspawn snarls as we reach a winding trail that leads up hillocks to the highway. With quick agreement, we leave Morrigan to defend the cart and Leliana, Alistair, Sten, and I race up the road to do battle with the denizens of the Blight.

We are fortunate to race from our side path right between a pair of unarmed dwarves and a midsized troop of vile darkspawn. Most of our enemy are archers, so I find my explosive incantation will be useless. Instead, I make a wall of my will to protect the dwarves, and focus on enhancing the blades of my comrades. I also focus my will into bolts of pure destruction when the others leave me an opening. Sten lays about himself with a massive, two-handed sword, at one point slicing a hurlock cleanly in half. Leliana climbs upon the dwarves’ wagon, firing above us all at the rearmost archers. Alistair stands between me and the darkspawn, smashing them down with his shield if they venture too close to me. Were I not so handily holding my own in the fray, I would feel as though he were coddling me.

In short order, the dead darkspawn litter the stones of the highway, and only we and the dwarves remain. I send Leliana down the path to bring Morrigan to us, and we introduce ourselves to the dwarves we have just rescued. Bodhan Freddick is the name of the caravan driver, and the other is his son, Sandal. Something seems not quite right about the boy, but I figure he may just be in shock. As we help the dwarves gather their goods back onto their wagon, and track down their startled mule, they ask if they might join us on the road. I tell them we would not turn away their company, but we are Grey Wardens with a price upon our heads. Bodhan declines to join us after all, giving the excuse that we will probably see too much excitement for his comfort. We wish them well and press on at swift pace toward Redcliffe.


	10. Stolen Moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting to know some characters in the uneventful travel between high-drama events.

We travel as long as the horse can, finding a soft green near the road when his hooves start dragging. There we make fire and pull out sections of roast bear. It tastes all the better for having been tightly packed with herbs and garlics for a day. I once more consume a roast meant for twelve, washing it down with pure, cool water. When I pull out one of the cheese wheels to finish off the meal, Alistair forgets his composure entirely and hugs me, then blushes fiercely to Leliana’s and my amusement. Morrigan rolls her eyes and makes retching sounds. I cut us each a not insignificant slice of the cheese, and even Morrigan and Sten crack smiles of appreciation at the smooth texture and sharp, herby taste. 

We aim to leave again in the pre-dawn gloom, reaching Redcliffe village as quickly as possible. Alistair is too exhausted from walking most of the day in armor to bother sniping back at Morrigan, or keeping up his usual distrust. He and Leliana are laid out on pallets near the cookfire before I can even finish my cheese. 

I ask Morrigan and Sten to keep first watch, and I lay myself down as well. I find myself in the darkness between points of light without number. Like floating through a sea of stars, I flit through the fade in the space between dreams. The firmament of the fade proper is large against the sea of dreams, broken islands drift before twisted hills and tormented sculpture, which in turn float before the spires of the Black City. Beings of light and energy, the pure concepts of a multitude of minds made manifest walk upon the near islands. Demons walk darkly upon deeper hills, flitting through the twisted landscapes of the middle fade formations. I cannot see as far as the Black City to know what dwells there. Instead, I look to the realm of dreams, searching for those I might recognize.

A rosy glow nearby seems familiar somehow, and I reach out to it to see. Within the time a heart would take to beat twice, I am drawn into the glow, and am staring up at thousands of intricately placed pieces of stained glass. Music beautiful enough to make the very soul weep with joy echoes from every corner, and there in the center of a warmly glistening wooden floor, Leliana dances. Her partner is tall, gaunt, and cloaked, but the curve of hip and shoulder occasionally outlined by the flowing cape is wrong for a man. I bend the weave of the dream about me to remain an unnoticed watcher as I draw close. I hear mellifluous voices speaking just above a whisper. The gaunt figure is definitely a woman, with a decidedly seductive contralto. Her Orlesian words blend harmoniously with Leliana’s soprano responses in the same tongue. I know the language well enough from my many hours of studying old histories, but I am hearing it spoken now for the first time. 

The gaunt woman is blending instructions and endearments, drawing Leliana ever closer to her in the dance. Finally, she stops, placing her hands upon Leliana’s cheeks and bending down to kiss my copper-haired companion. I am simultaneously shocked and excited. Leliana, in turn, reaches up and brushes back the gaunt woman’s hood. The face is slightly too thin for true beauty, but its high cheekbones and great, dark eyes hold power, charm, and seduction in equal measure. “My Leliana,” the gaunt woman whispers, her hands pulling my companion close, even as they deftly cut the laces of the delicate blue and cream gown that so complimented Leliana’s eyes. The gaunt woman’s darkly robed arms clutch Leliana close to her breast, swinging her in a wide, arcing step of a dance I do not know. The blue and cream gown is abandoned upon the dance floor, and Leliana reaches up, releasing a single clasp about the other woman’s neck. The great, dark cloak flutters to join the dress upon the floor as the women dance by again. Leliana wears only delicate, blue shoes with thinly tapered heels. From there to the bows in her intricately piled copper tresses, her creamy skin is bare and displayed. The gaunt woman looks even more so in her tight, black riding leathers. With another deft action of her hands, bows and jewels cascade to the ground as Leliana’s elegant coiffeture falls into thick, soft waves about her shoulders and back. My companion looks young and awe-struck as the darkly clad woman sweeps her into an embrace once more, kissing Leliana deeply. Leliana’s arms trace their way around the other woman’s back, her body straining against the black, leather-clad form. “I love you, Marjorlaine,” I hear Leliana whisper. 

“My Leliana,” I hear the gaunt Marjorlaine purr in reply as she dips and twirls the now naked Leliana, taking each opportunity presented to caress breast or buttock. The light trickling through the thousand colored panes becomes soft, its heat intense. The soul-moving music becomes more rhythmic, insistent, and I see what appears to be a warm, welcoming boudoir resolve at the edge of the dancing floor. Closer and closer the pair dance toward it, Leliana becoming ever more flustered and yearning. Her partner, though, remains cold and calculated in each step, each caress. There is point and purpose to this seduction from Marjorlaine’s perspective, and this is why I do not immediately pull myself away when the passion flares and turns the tide of the dream. Instead, I draw closer, intrigued by the chill of Marjorlaine’s intent. Even in this dreamscape of Leliana’s devising, the woman’s hands are fast beyond imagining. I do not see the knife until it is already poised to plunge into Leliana’s naked back. As my friend’s scream shatters every pane of colored glass, I rip myself away from the dream. Not a moment too soon, for the bright pulse of the dream’s light blinks out of existence behind me.

I follow the thread of my essence back to my own dreamscape, indulging in the memory of besting Jowan in our first contest of focusing energy. I watch the gleeful face of my seven-year-old self as I first meld my power with that of a circle for a ritual healing. During a montage of memories of discovery within the tower gardens, I feel the press of another upon my conscious, and bring myself into the waking world. “It is your watch,” Morrigan says matter-of-factly, “although, if you would like to allow the darkspawn to wonder off with Allistair, I will not mind.” I chuckle at the suggestion, though I realize she does not exactly jest. I am rewarded with one of her rare smiles as she turns to tuck herself into a bedroll near the fire. Sten nods to me, and I motion him toward the bedrolls even as I bend to shake Alistair awake. I opt to let Leliana sleep for a bit longer, knowing well that her sleep had been so abruptly interrupted earlier.

Alistair questions why I leave Leliana to rest, and I tell him that her nightmares woke me, so she deserves what peace she can find in the night. He nods solemnly, knowing all too well the flavor of nightmare. Realizing where his mind is going, I suggest to him that I help him into his armor for the watch. He hesitates at first, as though he fears my touch. “Come now, Alistair,” I say playfully, “I will not bite and armor is difficult to don alone.”

He ducks his head in agreement, and I can see the tell-tale pink of a blush upon the tops of his ears. It is a form of sweet torture, being so close to Alistair. I feel a heated yearning grow in my belly, and my heart flutters at even the chaste touch of buckling his coat of plates. As I kneel and help fasten his grieves, he shifts uncomfortably and I hear him groan softly, a mixture of desire and frustration in the tone. I feel a surge of echoing heat course through my blood and erupt as a soft, wishful sigh. “I…” he stammers, gulping loudly, “… must go visit the trees.” He rushes away with a lurching gait and disappears into the underbrush at the edge of the firelight for some time.

I groan softly, trying to master my own frustrated arousal by busying myself preparing oatcakes. As I come back to the fireside with oats, honey, water, and some of the last remaining nuts, Leliana’s bright blue eyes catch the firelight. She is grinning at me. “He cares for you, very much,” she says, half-teasing, half wistful. I can see lines of sadness around her eyes. “You should see how he watches you when you’re not looking.” She sits up and looks at me directly. “Why did you leave me sleeping?”  
“You had obviously been having nightmares,” I say, gazing at her levelly over my pot of oats, honey, and water, daring her to deny it. “You had just quieted, and I had not the heart to wake you,” I whisper softly while mixing the oats and water. I stir in solemn silence for a while, as Leliana gazes dejectedly into the fire. Her eyes shed no tears, but my heart weeps for the desolation in her eyes. “Can you help me add the nuts?” I ask, after the oats have softened. I am just hoping to distract her from her heartbreaking self-reflection. She comes over and pours the nuts in a few at a time as I continue to mix. I nod when there are enough, and set aside my spoon, cleaning my hands with some of my remaining water. I motion for her to do the same, and begin taking handfuls of the thick paste and forming them into small balls. “Do you miss Orlais?” I ask as though making idle conversation. 

With a soft smile of gratitude, Leliana begins to tell me of the beauty of music and the splendor of Val Royeaux, the grand temple of Orlais. I can see the many-colored stained glasses of her dream in my mind’s eye as she describes. In the middle of a humorous anecdote about a fine Orlesian lady who decided to coif her hair with live songbirds, a long groan sounds from the edge of the camp, outside the firelight. I am on my feet in a heartbeat, calling to check if Alistair is well, even as I am racing across the intervening ground. “I’m fine,” he calls back in a breathless voice, “don’t bother coming to check on me, I’ll be back soon.” 

I shrug and return to Leliana and the mostly-formed oatcakes. She grins at me knowingly, and I return her gaze, confused. She laughs outright, an absolutely musical sound. “You were telling me of Lady Elise and some birds?” I ask, with deeper confusion, which simply makes her laugh harder. I shake my head, and finish forming the last of the cakes. I wander to the tree line away from Alistair, and gather many large, green, sweet-smelling leaves from a plant I know to be edible, while Leliana rolls on the ground, attempting to get a handle on her mirth. As I rinse the leaves and stack them upon the edge of the cart, Alistair joins me, walking straighter, but looking absolutely bashful as he washes his hands and takes over rinsing the leaves. “You are certain you are well?” I ask him, studying his face. To my utter confusion, he turns bright crimson and averts his gaze. “You are important to me, Alistair,” I insist, still confused and now a bit worried, “I would have you be well, or help you to be so if I can.” He clears his throat and waves me away.

I return to the fire completely baffled, and begin wrapping cakes in green leaves, setting them within the lidded iron pot. Leliana, now having finally recovered, finishes the story of the fine lady and the awful tragedy of live songbirds in the hair. I giggle with her, as Alistair brings the remainder of the leaves, and helps us wrap the rest of the cakes in silence. Leliana goes on to describe the fine clothing she once wore in Orlais, and confesses that she misses the shoes. I ask her to tell me more as I will the lidded pot under the coals to bake. “When I left Orlais, the fashion was shoes with delicate, tapered heels and embellishments in the front--a ribbon perhaps, embroidery. In soft colors of course; it was spring…” I recall the shoes from her dream, and I can see that she does too, for her eyes suddenly become sad.

“Oh! That sounds so lovely!” I coo, trying to bring back her smile.

“The shoes made in Oralais were exquisite,” she continues, also trying to find her smile. “Not at all like these clunky fur-lined leather boots you have in Ferelden. Ugh...” Her lip curls in comical distaste as she slaps at the fur lining of one of her boots before adjusting the laces, “just look at them.”

“I know, right?” I reply, looking at my own fur-lined boots in the light of the fire and picturing myself dancing in those elegantly adorned slippers from Leliana’s dream.

“Oh, I could talk about shoes all day!” Leliana exclaims.

Alistair rolls his eyes, clears his throat, and announces that he is going to patrol the tree line and check the road. Leliana rolls her own eyes to that, and bids him “call out if you have needs.” He turns scarlet again and walks away quickly, pausing only to take up sword and shield.

“I do not understand,” I complain, staring very directly at Leliana. “Why does he turn red and why do you laugh so?”

She cocks her head to the side and stares at me, as though seeing me for the very first time. “You truly don’t understand, do you?” I shake my head. “You are every bit as young and innocent as you appear, no?” She asks of me, musingly.  
“I am less than one month into my eighteenth year,” I tell her, and I have lived cloistered within the Tower since a time before I had solid memories.

“Well, my pretty, young thing,” Leliana purrs, “let me tell you a little of men.”

We discuss the concept of love and of sex in quite frank terms for some time, when she lays the shocking truth on me that arousal for a man can be quite painful if left unrelieved. “Which is why brothels make such ready coin,” she tells me. “But if there is no woman to be had, or a man feels he should not use the women about him so, he can relieve the pressure himself.”

As the dawn’s light burning away a morning’s fog, understanding washes across my mind. “Then Alistair? The moan? The blushing?” I stare straight into Leliana’s eyes, my own as round as dinner plates in newfound wonder. “Me? He had that reaction to my touch?”

“I told you before that he cares for you deeply,” Leliana tells me smugly. “He also apparently respects you greatly, as he obviously is going to great lengths to appear something other than a drooling letch in your eyes.”

“I thought you and he…” I say, looking at her in confusion again. “I mean… I saw you flirting in Lothering.”

“I was only trying to erase the worried look from his face as he looked through the crowds for you,” she tells me with a smile.

“Are you not attracted to him then?” I ask, despite my memory of her dream.

“A little,” she sighs wistfully, “but he would never give me a second look while in your company.”

“You are far more beautiful than I am,” I tell her with conviction. “Your eyes sparkle like a morning sky fresh washed with spring rain, and your hair is as the heart of the hearthfire. Your voice holds all the music of the Chant of Light, and your step the grace of a trained dancer. You believe and act with such passionate fervor that even the benumbed feel again in your presence, and you gaze upon the world with such hope and reverence that anyone would be a fool not to immediately love you.” I hear the words pour forth from me, knowing I mean them, yet even as they pass my tongue, knowing they bear part of my soul and leave me open to rejection and derision.

Instead of turning away, however, Leliana looks on me in wonder, and it is my own turn to blush and avert my gaze. “But you are obviously drawn to Allistair, no?” Leliana asks in confusion.

“I am as newly alive after Ostagar,” I tell her forlornly, “my heart seems to want to feel everything, just to confirm that life. I am drawn to you. I am drawn to Alistair. I am jealous of you both each time you share a smile or a laugh. I am nothing but confusion.”  
“Have you ever been… intimate with another?” Leliana asks me.

In a rush, I tell her about the forbidden attraction I bore for Cullen, and how our essence met just once in the Fade, but never in the flesh. I go on to tell her of my short and passionate affair before the battle at Ostagar, stating my lover died with the King’s army and omitting that it was the King himself.

“No wonder your heart is so confused,” she whispers. “I can relate all too well.”

She is about to tell me more, when we hear the sound of Alistair’s footfalls approaching. My heart races and I feel giddy at the very thought that Alistair draws near. I shake my head at myself, wondering where all my self-control has gone.

Leliana grins at my sudden agitation and excuses herself, stating an urgent need to answer nature’s call. As Alistair enters the circle of the fire’s light, I see him quickly tuck what looks like a red flower into a round scroll case. He fastens the latches on the ornate tube and slips it in to his satchel before returning to my side. He looks about for Leliana for a moment, and asks her whereabouts. “She went to relive herself,” I say, gesturing vaguely to the tree line where he had previously disappeared.  
The blush that stains his ears at my innocuous words emboldens me. “Has anyone ever told you how handsome you are?” I ask with a gentle smile as he sinks to the ground near me.

“Not unless they were asking me for a favor…” he starts thoughtfully, “Well, there was that one time in Denerim, but those women were… not like you.” He turns to me with an impish grin “Why? Is this your way of telling me you think I’m handsome?” His grin may be impish, but I can see a shy hopefulness in his gaze that is not entirely masked by his humor.

“You know you’re handsome, Alistair.” I say with a warm smile.

“Maybe…” he replies, “but it doesn’t hurt to have a pretty girl say that, though. Beats being run through with a sword any day.”

He leans closer to me, without looking directly at me, as if sharing a secret. “So…” he says softly, “is this the part where I get to say the same?”

I blush fiercely and fidget with my hands. “Not unless you don’t think so…” I murmur finally, gazing at my hands rather than let Alistair see the burning, yearning desire blazing in my eyes.

“Oh, I think so,” he says, a mischievous grin coloring his voice. He leans away, and I immediately miss his warmth and nearness. “I’ll just spring it on you when it’s a surprise.” He looks at me wickedly, and for the first time I recognize the heat of a reflected desire in his golden gaze. He laughs as though he has just hatched a nefarious plot, and I feel myself joining in, feeling less self-conscious in his company than I have in days.

Leliana joins us while we are still recovering from the deep belly-laughs, and I convince my companions to sit with me, back-to-back, each of us keeping watch over a different direction as the oatcakes slowly bake within the coals of the low fire. I also convince Leliana to chill our blood with her rendition of the legend of Flemeth.

As the pre-dawn gloom lightens about us, I catch Alistair giving an assessing glance at the sleeping Morrigan, and I feel his shudder against my back. “Are you wondering whether Flemeth is going to chase us down to eat her last daughter?” I ask him quietly.  
Alistair’s back stiffens against mine. “I hadn’t even considered that…” He tells me with another shudder.

“What do you mean?” Leliana asks, moving her back from mine in order to look me in the face.

“Morrigan is Flemeth’s daughter.” I tell her matter-of-factly.

Leliana’s eyes grow wide and round as she looks over to the sleeping Morrigan as well, shuddering despite herself. “You jest, yes?” she asks nervously.

“No,” I say with certainty. “The old woman used her power to heal me. I felt its touch, and it is ancient, vast, and twisted. I think that madwoman holds more power than even the Archdemon. I am most certain that she sent Morrigan with us simply because the temptation to devour her daughter was becoming too great, but the maternal impulse could still take the fore.”

“How awful,” Leliana whispers with a delicate shudder, “does she know the tales?” 

“I assume she has heard the Chasind legends,” Alistair chimes in with a note in his voice halfway between compassion and revulsion, “but I also assume the tale is different when the legend herself tells it.”

“Come now,” I tell my comrades, “we must get ready to break camp. I will wake Morrigan today.” Twin sighs of relief greet my last words, and I find myself laughing aloud as I climb to my feet and cross the green to do just as I promised. I continue to the other side of the fire and wake Sten, and I am still laughing as I go to heed nature’s call in the woods.

Oatcakes and bear make a hearty breakfast. The repast helps to keep my growling stomach quiet for most of the morning. By mid-day however, I have had to raid the sack of bear jerky that did not quite fit in the barrel yesterday. I also take more turns at walking today so that I can forage green things and wild fruits. I cannot in all my years in the tower recall having ever been so ravenous. At my current rate of consumption, the bear roasts will be gone tonight. Fortunately, we have covered twice the distance of a usual caravan for the past two days, and should arrive at Redcliffe early on the morrow. Other than my vociferous stomach, today’s travel is uneventful. I take a guard shift while Sten Drives the wagon, and use the time to attempt to learn more about the Qunari people. 

Not that Sten makes it easy, mind. One thing I am definitely able to glean is that to the Qunari there is little concept of free choice. Qunari seem to be casted much as dwarves of Orzammar, born into their professions and encouraged to know their places and celebrate that knowledge, albeit quietly and with great reserve. I can appreciate this to some degree, being sentenced to the Circle myself by accident of my power. It was a balm for some time to not know my own history, and be aware only that I was an apprentice of the Circle. There were other apprentices that came in those first years that railed against their fates, escaped the circle, and were brought back in shackles and chains. I remember one in particular that escaped six times, once even after he was Harrowed. I shake my head at the memory, recalling instead that after I received and translated my mother’s letter I laid awake countless nights wondering what it might be like to be a young scion of a great house across the sea, to wear beautiful gowns and dance with princes. “Yes, there is definitely benefit in accepting an inescapable fate,” I think aloud to an approving nod from Sten. I don’t bother to elaborate that I’m actually thinking of my current predicament of needing to unite Ferelden and stop a Blight, a fate which I would never have chosen myself. 

We can see the faint silhouette of the top levels of the Circle Tower rising over the sharp edge of the distant horizon before the sun sets upon our march this day. Just as I predicted, I finish off the last of the bear roasts, tossing all remaining garlics, onions, and herbs that had been packed with them in a pot. I add the handful of remaining dried bear strips that did not fit in the barrel, breaking them into small pieces, and empty a small cask of beer over it all. I set it to simmer before assigning Leliana and Morrigan to first watch with Sten and dragging my still-complaining stomach off to slumber.

As I float in the sea of darkness between dreams, I hear forlorn calls coming from not too far away. There is a dreamer lost within the fade, one here too fully. I seek the dreamer, in effort to direct him back to his own dream, but I cannot reach him due to strong demonic presence I cannot afford to face without forewarning my companions of my intent. The combination worries me, and I turn to seek my own dream. A brighter light than my own distracts me on the way, however.

I stand upon docks by the gently lapping waters of Lake Calenhad. Some distance across the rippling waters rises the island with the tower in which I spent my youth. I gaze at it spiraling high into the clouds. A short way down the lakeshore, a wiry young man with auburn hair and shining grey eyes attempts to teach a young boy how to fight with a sword. There is true affection in the eyes of the young man as he tries to walk the child through a series of strikes and blocks. It is far too much discipline for the young one, and at some point he rushes the man, tripping straight into a mud puddle. At that point, the training devolves into a bout of laughter, mud-slinging and a game of tag. The sweetness of the scene warms my heart. That is, until a thin woman with tightly bound blond hair and what should be beautiful young features set in an imposing scowl enters from behind me on the docks. “Teagan! Alistair!” she snaps out the names as though they are curses. “What is the meaning of this?” As is common in the way of dreams, the very sky above becomes dark and rumbling with the woman’s anger. “I should expect the bastard brat of a peasant to carry on so,” the woman growls, gesturing at the younger boy and waving a hand in a dismissive gesture, “you should be above this Teagan.” The woman turns her questioning gaze on the young man.

“We were just learning…” Teagan starts, and is quelled into silence by the darkening scowl of the woman. “Have you not learned that you can teach that filthy whelp nothing?” The woman says, her tone positively dripping with derision.  
“And you, brat?” She turns the daggers of her glare upon the young Alistair, “if you see fit to repay my husband’s generosity with such willful destruction, I will see you have only the rags befitting your station.” The child balls his hands into fists and stands belligerently, not answering, but not allowing the tears of shame and rejection to fall from his eyes.

“I am sorry, Lady Isolde” Teagan says, stepping forward to place himself between the harridan and the boy.

“As well you should be,” she snaps, “now come, you have much to do in preparation for your travel. His Majesty will not want such a creature as you are now to be training his son. Can you not be more like your brother?”

Teagan, hangs his head, mumbling more apologies as the harsh woman turns upon her heel, motioning him to follow. 

“You!” She snaps, looking straight at me, “take that,” she flicks a hand toward young Alistair, “to the castle and clean it.” She pauses her steps a moment, then lets a vicious smile curl her lips, “then find it some rags and let it clean pots with the scullions since it so loves grime.” With a self-satisfied smile and a nod at her own ingenuity for torment, the young woman marches off.

I step up to the boy and sink to my knees, looking into his tear-laden golden eyes. “Sending you to the Chantry seems to have been a mercy on Arl Eamon’s part if you were living with that.” 

The young boy nods, and heaves a huge sigh as his shape shimmers. He rapidly resolves into my handsome fellow warden, and I rise to my feet to continue meeting his gaze. “You know you are bigger and more important than she is now?” I ask, reaching up to lay my hands upon Alistair’s cheeks and bring his gaze fully to mine.

“Am I?” He asks, “She still holds sway with Arl Eamon, and if he’s as sick as we’ve heard, she would actually be in charge.”

“You are,” I whisper with great conviction. “You are one half of the most elite and legendary order in Ferelden. No one would ever trust that shrew with defending and saving the world, would they?”

“You always make such good points,” Alistair says with a smile, bringing his hands up to encircle my waist.

“Of course I do,” I say with a soft, self-mocking smile, “I know everything and I am always right.”

“Is that so?” He purrs at me, with an almost smug smile on his face. “Have you any other points to make then?”

“Well,” I say, trying to make my voice thoughtful, even as I allow my hands to slide over Alistair’s cheeks, tracing his lower lip with one thumb, “If you spend your life running away from things you desire for fear they will be taken away, that woman wins.”  
Pain and unbearable loss dim the gold of Alistair’s eyes, and he pulls away from me. The soft sand beneath our feet hardens into the joined stones of the temple ruins at Ostagar. The infinitely more beautiful body that Alistair’s mind paints as me lays writhing upon the stones while Duncan kneels nearby, bodily restraining Alistair, who keeps trying to go to the fallen memory of me.

“You cannot go to her, Alistair,” Duncan says to my companion. “She must master the taint on her own, or she will not survive.”

“Did we have to do this to her?” Alistair moans in an agony of guilt and horror. “She was so young, and a mage. She might have had hundreds more years before her.”

“I know you admire her, Alistair, you may even desire her,” Duncan says calmly and coolly to Alistair. “Yet she accepted the call to the Joining, and she has willingly taken the burden that cannot be foresworn. She may one day have to put that duty before your life, just as you may be called to do the same.”

“If she even survives the Joining,” Alistair says, visibly deflating.

“She has already survived, Alistair,” Duncan says to my disheartened companion as the body of my construct stills and my breath slows and becomes even.

“She won’t be the same after, though,” Alistair says mournfully.

“We never are,” Duncan agrees somberly.

The unnaturally beautiful version of me on the ground flutters her eyelids, and groans, trying to rise. Duncan finally releases Alistair to come to her side, and she looks straight into his face, her features shifting in confusion.  
“Alistair?” I hear my own voice come from the dream construct. There is no distortion or addition to it unlike the figure. For some reason I find that far more a compliment than the perfected flower vision he holds of me.

“It is done,” Duncan intones, “welcome.”

I see a wry smile I don’t remember making cross my too-pretty features before the dream me says “That was worse than the harrowing.”

Alistair’s features blanch in a way I did not recall from my own memory of the day, and I cock my head to the side, looking at him in confusion.

As the too-pretty me exits the temple with Duncan, I walk to Alistair’s side and take his hand.

“Why the sudden distance?” I ask Alistair softly.

He stares at me, looks to the retreating back of his dream representation of me, and back at me with complete bafflement on his face.

“It is your dream, your memory” I tell him softly, taking even this small opportunity to turn, reach out and touch the skin of his face. “I am just here to help you face it.”

The stones of the ruined temple about us change color, and the walls fill in to become the entry hall to the Circle Tower. Alistair’s armor changes from Warden’s splint mail into the heavier plate of Templar uniform as he steps away from my side and releases my hand. He reaches up with heavily gauntleted hands and places the shining silver great helm upon his head. His face is masked entirely behind the piecework of the face plates, the gold of his eyes nearly indiscernible through the narrow eye slit.

It is as though he becomes someone entirely different with that gesture, and in a way he has. He steps into the formation of Templars escorting a young apprentice to the tower. I recognize the boy, Braden, a youth of about 10 years who had been brought to the tower for testing after a mysterious plague broke out near Bournshire. The contingent of Templar were from that monastery. There was another apprentice from that area, Celeste. She had been a friend to Jowan, and rumor said possibly more. I had never spent time with her, but I recalled the whispered rumors of her failed harrowing. She had disappeared about a year before I left the tower. Just days, in fact, after Braden’s arrival.

I stare in knowing horror at Alistair’s back as he marches with the Templars to report to Knight Commander Greagoir. I follow behind, weaving the threads of the dream about myself to be invisible. Tours, meditations, training, and meals with other Templar initiates all pass in that rapid flashing of the useless but memorable moments surrounding important events. I get the impression that Alistair was in my Tower for quite some time without our ever having crossed paths, when the dream crawls to the pace of important memory. 

Alistair stands at the back of a room full of initiates, observing a class being taught by Cullen. I recognize myself next to Cullen at the front of the class. Well, it is the me that Alistair imagines, so I am fairer and more slender than I recall myself being seven or so months past. Alistair’s hands curl into fists at his sides as Cullen demonstrates how to incapacitate me and block me from magical retaliation. I recall Cullen’s hands being gentle, and myself being completely willing to stand for the demonstration. Alistair’s memory of the event seems brutal. Worse yet, the other initiates in Alistair’s group whisper lurid comments about me, and their captain silences them with a warning that mine is a form a desire abomination would take, so they best make close observation of how Cullen resists me. 

The class of first-year initiates file out, and the younger me goes with them. Cullen walks over to Alistair’s group to answer questions. Alistair registers none of the questions, but he picks right up on a side-comment between two of his fellow initiates “I’d overcome her with my will any time.” Cullen’s face transforms into a mask of rage that I had never witnessed in all my years as his friend. 

“You would not stand a chance, young slack-jawed fool,” Cullen snaps at the initiate. “That particular apprentice is possibly one of the most dangerous creatures on all of Thedas. At the age of six she destroyed a half-dozen assassins, and two darkspawn raiding parties, each time with a single spell.” Cullen waits a moment for that to sink in, and repeats “At the age of six, and without training.” 

“Think, boys,” he continues, “That girl has been learning will, wisdom, cunning, and control for most of a dozen years.” Cullen’s tone and features soften perceptibly, and he looks toward the door where the dream of me exited. “She began developing that figure not all that long ago, and fortunately for idiots like you she does not yet know it could be used as a weapon against your ilk.” Cullen’s intimidating mask of rage is back as he turns again to the assembled boys. “Your entire battalion of initiates would not be enough to subdue that apprentice’s will if she opted to struggle. The entire tower full of Templar might not be enough to contain or destroy her were she to become an abomination. If you cannot respect the mages you are tasked with minding, at least have the good sense to fear the danger they represent.”

I hear Alistair swallow audibly next to me as the architecture of the training room fades into that of the Harrowing chamber. I enter behind and to the side of Alistair, who is escorting Celeste. His gauntleted hand wraps gently but securely about her upper arm as he marches her to the ceremonial audience with the First Enchanter and Knight Commander. The words of the Harrowing ritual echo through me, and I stretch out my senses to make absolutely certain that no demon essence is actually called into this dream with the memory. Only the Archdemon’s tightly caged essence is present, but there is the sensation of gleeful cackling from within those cages. 

Celeste leans over the glowing brazier of burning lyrium and collapses. My senses remain extended, wary, even as Celeste’s body rises, wreathing itself in flames as it charges toward the assembled Templars. Maniacal laughter rips from Celeste’s throat as she tears the gorget from one Templar and wraps flaming fingers about his neck. Alistair plunges his sword into the burning woman’s back and twists the blade. She releases her victim with an agonized scream as dark blood pours down Alistair’s sword and over his gauntlets. Celeste’s body drops to the floor at Alistair’s feet, and the blood continues to flow. Before all life fades from the girl, she turns her head to Alistair. “Thank you,” she whispers before closing her eyes and laying still in the growing pool of her own blood.

I step forth and lay my hand upon Alistair’s bloodied gauntlet as the scene fades to a small Chantry garden, giving me the impression that time has once again passed. Alistair’s helm is gone. His gauntleted hands, once again shining silver, are folded in prayer as he kneels next to me. 

Duncan enters the gardens and stands at the gates, his stance one of patient waiting. Alistair rises and turns to leave, and Duncan approaches, extending a hand in greeting as he introduces himself. 

“The Grey Wardens?” Alistair asks, a touch of awe in his voice. 

“Yes,” Duncan says solemnly, “I received word of you from some of my contacts within the Templar order, and felt that you might be an excellent candidate for the Grey Wardens. I have been observing for several days, and can tell that your heart is not in your vigil this night. Before you swear any vows to the Chantry, I would offer you a different path.”

There is no hesitation in Alistair’s agreement, and I follow the two out of the gardens and onto the ruined flagstones of Ostagar. Wardens and recruits sit about Duncan’s fire sharing tales, songs, and flagons of ale. There is laughter and comradery. For the first time in Alistair’s dream, I feel a sense of belonging and peace.

“Was it my desire that brought you here?” He asks, even as the firelight of Duncan’s camp blossoms to the light of the beacon in the tower. I feel the impact of crossbow bolts through my shoulders. I fall with a cry, and after brief moments filled with shouting and the clash of metal on metal, Alistair takes me into his arms, holding me to his breast. “Was it my desire that brought you here?” he asks as he holds me and weeps.

The bolts through my shoulders are excruciatingly painful in this dream, but I master this bit of fade and reach up to touch Alistair’s face, wiping his tears away the best I can. “It was my desire that brought us here,” I whisper softly to him, “and your desire and courage brought us past this.” 

Alistair leans down and grazes my lips with his own. Fire races through my essence, and I can see the same heat reflected in his form. 

“Do not let that shrew win,” I sigh before pulling myself from his dream, leaving behind an inert construct in my place. As I leave, I see his tears dry and eyes widen in surprise. The second flight of arrows descends and the great impact shakes the whole tower before I escape back to my own dream. Escape seems entirely the wrong word as the tiny dragon in its soul-cage roars, showing me Duncan’s final hours battling next to a shining, beautiful Cailan. Again and again I watch an ogre fling Duncan against rocks with a back-hand swing, the pops of snapping ribs like so many dry twigs in a silent forest. Cailan is crushed in the massive fist of the same ogre, and flung to the ground like a rag doll before Duncan can recover his flagging strength. Duncan climbs the chest of the ogre, using dagger and sword as hand-holds, and open sthe beast’s throat with a determined slash. My gore-covered Captain cradles my mangled King and looks to the blazing tower only for the realization to dawn that no help is coming. He tries to draw breath to sound regroup and retreat, but the pain is too great. A gout of blood is the only thing that issues from his lips when he opens them, and despair shades his eyes as the light fades from them. 

Each time the dragon in my soul cage plays the scene, he laughs louder and seems to grow larger. With a defiant scream, I force the bars of the cage tighter against the dragon within. I turn myself bodily away from the field of Ostagar and will myself to waking. I reach up and grasp blindly at something near my face as my eyes force their way open. 

My fist is white-knuckled around Leliana’s bracer. Her nimble fingers, still attempting to gently tuck a thick fall of my hair behind one of my ears. “Your turn to watch over me,” she whispers soothingly. 

“You will be safe in my care,” I whisper back, my voice gravelly in my dry throat, “and may the Maker give you better dreams than mine.” 

I gently release the bracer and catch Leiliana’s soft hand, pressing a gentle kiss of apology to the back. Leliana gasps and snatches away her hand, but I reach up and catch it again to keep her from running away. “I mean it,” I whisper to her, “you are safe with me.”

Her blue eyes sparkle with the sudden press of tears, and her lips tremble into a smile. “Promise?” She asks tremulously.

I tighten my grip on her hand for a moment, trying to relay reassurance with my squeeze, “My word as friend and Warden.” I say solemnly.

Leliana’s smile blossoms in full, and she turns toward me, assisting me to my feet. As I rise to my full height before her, I cannot resist a small jest. “Well, as long as you don’t snore too loud,” I say mischievously.

“I don’t snore at all,” she replies in playful revulsion.

“Well then,” I say with a full grin, pressing a playful kiss upon her cheek, “completely safe as I said.”

I am rewarded with her musical laughter as I cross the fire to wake Alistair to join me at watch. I stir the stew I started before my slumber and set it in the coals at the edge of the small fire. As three sets of soft snores fall into steady rhythms, I look across the flames at Alistair’s introspective face.

“What is it?” I ask gently.

“Nothing,” he tells me softly, “just thinking about the Grey Wardens.”

“What changes about you after the joining?” I ask gently, remembering Duncan’s words from the dream about it changing us all.

“You mean other than becoming a Grey Warden?” Alistair asks, obviously stalling. “Hmmm…” he continues after a moment, a wistful smile wreathing his lips, “You know, I asked Duncan this too, and all I got was ‘You’ll see.’”

“Just try that line on me,” I murmur, glaring at him playfully.

“I have other lines for you,” he returns, winking at me, “trust me.”

I blush and stare at the stewpot for a moment before raising my gaze back to his triumphant grin. “It’s not that Duncan wanted to keep it a secret,” he continues kindly, “It’s just that the Grey Wardens don’t discuss it much.” He sighs, as though reluctant to burden me with my own fate. “I gather it’s not a pleasant topic.”

I nod and step around the fire to sit next to Alistair, the both of us staring out at the night as we lean on one another, shoulder-to shoulder.

“The first change I noticed was an increase in appetite,” he tells me with a fond smile. “I used to get up in the middle of the night and raid the larder. I thought I was starving. I’d slurp down every dinner like it was my last, my face all covered in gravy. When I’d look up, the other Grey Wardens would stare…” He pauses for dramatic effect, then smiles, “then laugh themselves to tears.”

“I haven’t felt anything like that,” I jest in lady-like denial, even as I have to cross my arms over my complaining belly. 

“Really?” He asks in mock surprise, “Because I was watching you wolf down your food the other day and I thought, ‘It’s good thing she gets a lot of exercise.’”  
“Well,” I mutter, in a mock huff, “I am a growing girl.”

“I’ll say!” Alistair turns with a lecherous twinkle in his eye, glancing across my bosom, which has indeed become a little more ample since I left the Tower.

I gasp, cross my arms over my bosom, and glare haughtily at him, even as I am secretly pleased he noticed. “Uh… I didn’t mean it like that,” he chuckles nervously, blushing and wringing his hands. “Don’t hit me! I bruise easily.”

I cannot help but laugh at him as he quickly goes on with the subject. “Oh… and then there were the nightmares…” He explains that in the first months he had them every night and they were horrifying. Apparently, Wardens Joined during a Blight have that much worse than any others.

“I…” I can’t fully suppress the involuntary shudder at the brutal images from moments ago, then tear my mind away less I see the memory that is not mine while waking. I concentrate instead on how often I have found myself projected deeper than a normal dreamer should into the Fade of late, “…have had some strange dreams.”

“Some people never have much trouble, but that’s rare,” he tells me with sorrow and a touch of lingering guilt in his voice. He goes on to explain that others suffer exceedingly for the rest of their lives. After a certain amount of time the nightmares become unendurable, and the Warden actively seeks death. 

I hug myself against a sudden chill, and it takes some time to find my voice. “How long do we have?” I ask, my voice cracking on the last syllable.

“Well, in addition to all the other wonderful things about being a Grey Warden,” Alistair tries to mask the bitterness and guilt in his tone with a note of off-handed jest, “you don’t need to worry about dying from old age. You’ve got thirty years to live. Give or take.”   
I hear Alistair’s words from his memory last night “She might have had hundreds of years before her…” I put my hands to the cold dirt on either side of me to steady myself and stay upright. Alistair’s warm hand finds and covers one of mine as he continues.  
“The taint… it’s a death sentence. Ultimately your body won’t be able to take it. When the time comes, most Grey Wardens go to Orzammar and die in battle rather than…” he swallows hard, his hand now clutching mine for support as much as giving it “… waiting. It’s tradition.”

“So we are going to die…” I whisper, turning my hand to lace my fingers through Alistair’s and resting my head upon his shoulder. I am suddenly glad I brought up this subject before we decided to get him armored for watch. The body heat and feel of another human’s flesh through his light tunic is comforting in ways an armor-clad shoulder would not be.

“Yes,” he says softly, reaching with the far hand to trace the line of my jaw from ear to chin. “When Duncan told me, I was angry. He put his hand on my shoulder and said ‘It’s not how you die that’s important. It’s how you live.’” 

We sit in silence for a moment before Alistair comes to himself and becomes nervous at the intimacy of our position. He drops his hand from my face, but at least leaves his fingers intertwined with mine. “And you wondered why we kept the Joining a secret from the new recruits! There you have it,” he finishes lamely.

“I never wondered that,” I tell him somberly, taking up the hand interlaced with my own, and passing it to my other so that I can pull his arm across my shoulders and shift closer to his warmth. He doesn’t resist, though I can feel an increase in tension with the stiffening of all of his muscles. “I understand,” I finish, leaning my body against his for warmth and mutual comfort.

Alistair sighs and much of his stiff tension dissipates. He tells me softly that Duncan had been having the nightmares again, had known that it was his time. I wrap my arms about my companion as we discuss our fallen commander and how he will be remembered.

I want to tell him in this moment that meeting him, fighting beside him, sharing his memories has made everything I have endured worthwhile. I fear to break the spell of our closeness with the confession, however, and remain still for some time, just reveling in the knowledge that he has allowed me to be this close for this long, without running away. Practicality eventually wins out, though, and I find myself reminding him that we need to get him armored, just in case.

We both sigh at my suggestion, and climb to our feet slowly. As I am helping to buckle his gorget, I ask “If you hated Chantry life, why did you stay and train to become a Templar?”

“Have you seen the uniform?” He asks with a sly grin, “It’s not only stylish, but well-made. I’m a sucker for good tailoring.”

“In that case, you should have become a mage,” I tell him, twirling to let the trim on my own robes glitter in the firelight. 

“OH, you aren’t kidding,” he says with mock sincerity, “I think the Templar uniforms are as colorful as they are just so the Templars don’t feel dull in comparison. Last thing you want when you’re about to take down some malificar out in the woods is to have him point and laugh at your taste in clothing. Am I right?”

It is all I can do to keep a straight face as I hold Alistair’s left gauntlet while he slips into it. “Seems that might happen anyway,” I reply when I feel sufficiently able to retort without ruining it with my laughter. I cannot suppress the grin or chuckle entirely though.

Alistair stumbles back, his still-bare right hand clasped to his breast “Oh, ow, ow,” he chuckles, “Stab wounds to the pride are the worst.”

I disintegrate into a hail of girlish giggles and have to fight for breath before helping Alistair don his right gauntlet.

As I check over all the myriad buckles on the splint mail, Alistair’s grin falls away. “You don’t really want to know about my being a Templar, do you?” He asks nervously, “It’s really quite boring.”

“Then make up something more exciting,” I whisper close to his ear while adjusting his pauldrons.  
“You know,” he says to me, turning to give me the full effect of his glittering golden gaze over his mischievous grin, “I like the way you think. But I guess if you’re really curious, there’s no harm in obliging…” After a pause to let me finish with the buckles, he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, adding “I have a couple of interesting looking moles I could show you later too if you’re interested.” 

Feeling the heat of the blood rushing to my cheeks, I duck my head and sit down near the fire, blushing profusely. I reach up and tug on his hand to get him to take a seat on the ground next to me. I am so busy trying to hide my blush that I cannot see Alistair’s expression. 

“The truth of the matter is,” he begins, and I can hear that the smile is gone from his lips, “that I did hate going to the monastery. The initiates from poor families thought I put on airs, while the noble ones called me a bastard and ignored me. I felt like Arl Eamon had cast me off, unwanted and I was determined to be bitter. But I took some solace in the training itself I guess. I was actually quite good at it.”

“Enjoyed hunting mages, did you?” I ask, Jowan’s flight from the tower replaying across my mind, but then I recall Celeste’s soft whisper of thanks and Alistair’s stricken expression at he stared at her blood on his gauntlets and I overcome with shame at my own insensitivity.

“No, I never got that far.” He says, taking my hand in his. 

I look up into eyes that bear the haunting of the memory of a slain girl and see that he is trying to project reassurance and comfort me. I give him the best smile of encouragement that I can, but know it is a pale, wan thing.

“I mostly learned about discipline and training my mind to use the abilities that Templars have. It was difficult, but rewarding. I never really felt at home anywhere though, until I joined the Grey Wardens. And Duncan felt my Templar abilities might be useful for when we encountered darkspawn magic, so I kept it up.”

I find myself nodding in agreement with his words, though the fact that he has retained the grip on my hand is eminently distracting. 

“What about you?” He asks after a pause. “Do you have anywhere you consider home?”

The sound of my own long-ago screams for my mother echo for a moment in my ears, and I once again see the rage and threat in Knight-Commander Greagoir's eyes after Jowan's escape. Then Duncan's voice echoes in my memory, "It is done... Welcome." 

I look deeply into the waiting golden eyes, and my voice comes out with strength and conviction. “My home is with the Grey Wardens now, with you.” The knowledge of the truth rocks me to the core. I mean the last words more than any I have ever said.

“Is it?” He asks, eyes wide in surprise, and body holding completely still. 

We share the gaze for a long moment, and in the end he breaks it, looking down at my hand, now held in both of his.

“We won’t always be travelling like this, you know,” he says gently. “Once the war is over, once the Blight is… well, a time will come when we’ll have to think about having a real home again. Though that seems like a far ways off. And I suppose the Grey Wardens are gone for good, either way.”

“We can be rebuilt,” I say with conviction, bringing my second hand over to clasp both of his tightly, and looking back into his eyes.

“I suppose you’re right,” he says. “We can create new Grey Wardens, but we’ll never get back those we lost. I wonder if it would ever feel the same?”

“Not the same,” I whisper, “but still home.” 

The gaze lasts again, and I feel as though any moment we might start leaning toward one another, perhaps even finally share the kiss part of me has been longing for since I first saw his golden eyes at Ostagar. Then my complaining stomach roars and ruins the moment. Alistair chuckles and goes to the wagon to fetch me an oatcake. “Festis bei umo canavarum,” I whisper under my breath, staring at my navel. 

Alistair returns with a broad grin. "If it helps," he starts with a chuckle, "at our current pace we should be able to raid Castle Redcliffe’s larder by the midday meal tomorrow." 

“Think the cook will make any gravy?” I ask with smile, recalling his story of post-joining appetite.

“I’m sure they could whip some up for a growing girl,” he says before handing me a stack of oatcakes and popping one in his own mouth.

Our companionable silence lasts for a few hours, as we alternate patrolling the camp perimeter and sitting by the fire. The coldest and darkest hour, just before the pre-dawn gloom would creep up the horizon, we find ourselves together at the fireside. I am all but standing in the fire in attempt to get warm when Alistair approaches. He takes his own traveling cloak off and wraps it around me. Even though the cloth had been over his armor, rather than against his skin, it is warm to the touch.   
Immediately after settling the cloak over me, he walks to the other side of the fire to warm himself.

“Alistair,” I say shyly, hugging myself tightly under his cloak, “If you were raised in the Chantry, have you never…?” I trail off, but attempt to wiggle my eyebrows suggestively, even as I feel myself start to blush.

“Never…?” He prompts after a moment. “Never what?” He begins guessing absurd things that I was trying to ask and I get more and more flustered, not wanting to say outright that I wondered about him sexually, but wanting very much to know about him.  
“You mentioned ‘ladies’ in Denerim,” I finally get out, clearing my throat since it went dry just as all the blood rushed to my cheeks.

His eyes grow round and he blushes, shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair and finally responds. “I, myself,” he says, “never had the pleasure.” He elongates the vowels of the last word, once again making it suggestive of the very subject we are discussing, and urging my blush to creep back up my cheeks. “Not that I haven’t thought about it, of course, but… you know.”

“You never had the opportunity.” I finish his statement, remembering the tightly regimented lifestyle of the Templar initiates in my own Tower.

“Well, living in the chantry, is…” he clears his throat again before continuing, “not exactly a life for rambunctious boys. They taught me to be a gentleman, especially in the presence of beautiful women such as yourself.”  
“You think I’m beautiful?” I whisper. I knew he did, I recall his too-perfect me-construct in dreams, but hearing the words sets my heart fluttering in my ribcage.

“Of course you are, and you know it,” he replies, echoing my own words to him of last night. “You’re ravishing, resourceful, and all those other things you’d probably hurt me for not saying.” He rattles off quickly, obviously trying to master his own nerves.  
“I would never hurt you,” I say looking into his gaze with wide, stricken eyes at the very thought.

“Nor I you,” he declares with absolute conviction, the golden flames of his gaze setting fires in my soul. After a moment he clears his throat. “Let us change the subject,” he mutters “lest your risqué talk make my ears blush.”

“Too late,” I tease him, dissolving into a hail of girlish giggles. Alistair heads off to put the nosebag on the horse, grinning like the cat who just got the canary. I reach out with my power and pull the pot of stew out of the coals, letting it cool while I gather the remaining oatcakes and prepare to wake the first watch so we can be on the road before the sun.


	11. Catnip and Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair reveals his shocking secret, but Tethys keeps her own as our adventurers fight to preserve the village of Redcliffe

Leliana and I walk point for the hour or so that it takes the sun to finally crest the horizon. We spend the time discussing shoes, flowers, and growing up without mothers. My copper-haired companion and I have much in common, even if she is still hiding important details about her past. 

As the sun actually paints the sky in morning pinks, the sheer red cliffs lining the bowl of Lake Calenhad come into view. In the distance, the brooding black silhouette of the Circle Tower stretches long across the deep waters of the lake. For no reason I can fathom, life is not stirring in the little farmsteads that dot the verge between King’s Road and cliffs. I feel a foreboding disquiet at the lack of activity that intensifies as we draw nearer and see a set of great barricades erected between the high road to the Cliffside castle and the lakeshore village below.

Alistair rushes up to Leliana and myself, asking her to take his spot as rear-guard for a moment. Leliana cocks her head with an assessing look at Alistair before agreeing and falling back.

“Why the switch?” I ask with a smile. “You didn’t get your fill of my dubious company on watch?”

“Look, can we talk for a moment?” Alistair asks with concern bordering on worry in his eyes. “I need to tell you something I should probably have told you earlier.” I motion for a brief stop to rest the horse, and walk forward with Alistair, well out of range any prying human ears. 

“I am not going to like this, am I?” I ask nervously, his worry fanning the flames of my foreboding into a full sense of impending doom.

“I don’t know,” Alistair starts, hesitation written in every line of his body. “I doubt it. I’ve never liked it, that’s for sure.” He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he turns to look me in the eyes. “I told you before how Arl Eamon raised me, right? That my mother was a serving girl at the castle and he took me in?”

I nod agreement, motioning with a hand for Alistair to continue.

“The reason he did that was because…” Alistair fidgets and breathes deeply again, obviously dreading his next words. “Well… because my father was King Maric. Which made Cailan my… half-brother, I suppose.”

My sense of doom increases, and I sink to the ground. My mind reels, spiraling through every interaction between Duncan and Alistair. I remember Cailan’s wisecrack about my making sure Alistair survived climbing stairs, the fond smile suddenly making sense. Alistair being sent with me to the Tower of Ishal suddenly makes sense.

“So you’re not just a bastard, but a royal bastard,” my tone comes out a little teasing, for which I’m grateful.

“Ha! Yes, I guess it does at that,” Alistair says, gratefully taking the opportunity of humor to ease his tension. He sinks down to his haunches to keep at eye-level with me. “I should use that line more often.”

The dawning realization that Cailan had sent his lover with his half-brother out of battle as a contingency plan in case of exactly what had happened at Ostagar is just too much. I cover my face with my hands and shake my head.

“I would have told you,” Alistair begins apology, mistaking my response as reaction to his secret. “But… it never really meant anything to me. I was inconvenient, a possible threat to Cailan’s rule, and so they kept me secret. I’d never talked about it to anyone. Everyone who knew either resented me for it, or they coddled me. Even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it. I didn’t want you to know as long as possible. I’m sorry.”

I keep my face in my hands for a few moments longer, forcing my breaths to come in and out slow and even as my mind races through all the possible reactions of telling Alistair my own secret, which I finally decide that I will indeed take to the grave if possible.

“I think I understand,” I say finally.

“Ah, good. I’m glad,” Alistair rambles in relief. “It’s not like I got special treatment for it anyhow. At any rate that’s it. That’s what I had to tell you. I thought you should know about it.”

I raise my eyes to his, and force a grin that I do not feel. “Are you sure?” I ask. “You are not hiding anything else?”

“Besides my unholy love of fine cheeses and a minor obsession with my hair, no.” Alistair quips, and actual humor begins to suffuse my answering grin. “That’s it,” he continues, “Just the Prince thing..."

“You are a prince,” I say, realizing that I must effectively be royal catnip, “Somehow I find that very… thrilling.” I mean that last word in several ways, but Alistair is watching my lips rather than my eyes, and misses all but one.

“Oh! Did I just find the one damn decent thing about my birthright? I think I did,” he all but purrs, reaching out and taking my hand. 

“I have no illusions about my status, however,” he tells me earnestly, meeting my gaze now. “It’s always been made very clear that I’m a commoner and now a Grey Warden and in no way in line for the throne. And that’s fine by me. No, if there’s an heir to be found, it’s Arl Eamon himself. He’s not of royal blood, but he is Cailan’s uncle… and more importantly, very popular with the people. Though… if he’s really as sick as we’ve heard… no, I don’t want to think about that. I really don’t.” He shakes his head and drops his gaze to the valley below. I take his hands more tightly in both of mine and squeeze them, offering silent reassurance.

“So there you have it,” he says after my silence has stretched too long for his comfort. “Now can we move on and I’ll just pretend you still think I’m some… nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens.”

Alistair rises to his feet, and I lift my hands toward him. True to his word that he was raised a gentleman, he helps me up. “That is not what you really think, is it?” I ask gently once I am standing before my companion.

“Well… no,” he says, the touch of a blush staining his ears. “What I really think is that I was lucky enough to survive with you.”

My heart skips a beat as he turns and strides toward the barricades. It takes me a moment to remember to signal the wagon forward before I too remember my feet and start walking. I am lost in a morass of guilt and secrets for several paces. Can I truly contemplate exploring the growing love I have been feeling for Alistair knowing that his brother had claimed me before falling in battle? If I encourage the attraction on Alistair’s part and foster something more than friendship, could I step aside for Alistair to make someone else his future queen? As intent as he is in believing he has no claim, I have read too many histories of too many nations. Alistair will be Ferelden’s next king unless he dies before he can be crowned. I stop cold in my tracks and stare up at Alistair’s retreating back. He does not realize the awful truth that I do. Alistair’s birthright is what condemned our entire order at Ostagar. His position in the line of succession is the cause for the price on our heads now. Few knew that Maric’s illegitimate second son was a Warden, but Teyrn Logain was king Maric’s closest advisor and erstwhile best-friend. He would surely have known. Rather than risk the truth getting out, he approved the elimination of an entire order to destroy one man. Arl Eamon’s illness is likely also a plot of the Teyrn, to silence one of the few respected voices to back Alistair’s claim should we survive. I swallow convulsively, feeling all color drain from my skin as frigid terror crawls up my spine. The Tower. The Right of Annulment. The Teyrn is likely behind that too. I do not know how he arranged whatever horror that made the request possible, but the mages of the circle could definitively prove Alistair’s Theirin blood, so obviously they too would be a target for his scheming power-grab.  
I hear the wagon pass me, and I do not look up. I remain there in petrified dread until a soft hand is laid delicately on my shoulder. “Anything I can do to help?” Leliana’s voice chimes pleasantly into my ears, halting the downward spiral of my dread. The warmth of her touch radiates through my robe and begins to slowly turn back the tide of cold fear coursing through my blood.

“You just did,” I whisper, smiling gratefully into her luminous blue eyes, “thank you.” I straighten my shoulders and reach across myself to squeeze her hand, pulling it from my shoulder only to place it in my own before gesturing down the road and once more striding down the path to Redcliffe village. “Do you know any legends at all with happy endings?” I ask quietly as we walk together for a short while. 

Leliana is quiet for several paces before heaving a frustrated sigh. “None I can recall just now,” she answers. “Why?”

“I will explain later,” I say with a sad smile as I drop her hand and lift my robes slightly to run and catch Alistair. 

A youth no older than myself is climbing up from the village as Alistair approaches the barricades. 

I reach Alistair and halt him with a hand on the shoulder and we wait for the youth to climb the rest of the path. “You should know,” I tell Alistair softly, gently, “That it wasn’t Duncan that kept you out of the fighting, he was just tasked with delivering the message. Alistair turns confused eyes toward me as I continue. “King Cailan commanded that you and I specifically light the signal beacon. I didn’t understand at the time why he sent you. It all finally makes sense.” 

I can see the question growing in Alistair’s eyes of why it might make sense to send me, but the youth reaches us before the question can find voice. The youth introduces himself at Tomas, and asks if we have come to help. At our looks of confusion, he explains a dire situation of a village cutoff from its castle, lord, king and any defenders. Things he describes simply as “monsters” have been attacking the village every nightfall for days, and he fears the village will not survive the assault tonight without aid. Teagan, Bann of Rainesfere, and brother to the Arl we seek is in the village. We ask Tomas to take us for an audience, and he gladly agrees. Morrigan and Sten both voice complaints that I am diverting us from our mission to raise an army against the Blight.   
“Every life saved from another danger now,” I remind them sternly, “is one I may conscript later. Additionally, there is a price upon my head, and the only way to keep every refugee from here to Orzammar from trying to collect it is to improve the public opinion of my order.” 

Eventually Morrigan and Sten cede to my logic, but I send them to fish and forage as we enter the town so that they will not disrupt my audience with Bann Teagan. I can trust Leliana and Alistair to behave themselves appropriately, so they join the audience.  
Tomas takes us to the squat stone hall of the village Chantry. Considering the thin wood of all the other buildings of the town, I am suddenly glad for the Chantry’s foresight in building with stone. The forecourt, which would normally hold gardens, has been fortified with barricades at every entrance, and men in armor of varios qualities and states of repair are drilling in sword work, archery, and defensive group tactics. An aura of sorrow and hopelessness permeates the air as the doors of the Chantry are pulled open for our entrance. I can see the wiry young man from Alistiar’s memory in the lean frame of the Bann at the far end of the hall. To reach him, we must pass weeping orphans, frightened widows, and many injured men who are being tended by only a few trained healers, with nary a mage among them. My heart aches for the suffering here, and moreso for the distinct lack of hope within these walls. 

The Bann greets Tomas by name and asks who my party may be, observing that we are not simple travelers with a nod to my robes and our armaments. In the soft, filtered light of the Chantry, the Bann’s eyes appear a stormy blue-grey, and silver is beginning to streak his auburn locks at the temples, as well as to weave into his fiery beard. He attempts to greet us warmly as he congratulates Tomas for his effort in bringing us immediately for audience. I can see deep lines etching the Bann’s face, and dark smudges of sleepless nights wreathing his eyes.

“My name is Teagan,” he tells us, “Bann of Rainesfere, brother to the Arl.”

“I remember you, Bann Teagan,” Alistair speaks up at my side, a soft smile of reminiscence upon his lips, “though the last time we met I was a lot younger and… covered in mud.”

“Covered in mud?” Bann Teagan muses, mild surprise in his voice, and he looks closely at Alistair’s golden eyes, dark-gold hair, and strong jaw. “…Alistair? It is you, Isn’t it?” The questions are rhetorical, but Alistair nods confirmation. Hope that had been completely absent from this whole room suddenly kindles in Teagan’s eyes as they change from blue-grey to silver. “You’re alive! This is wonderful news!” 

“Still alive, yes,” Alistair replies somberly, “though not for long if Teyrn Logain has anything to say about it.”

“Indeed,” Teagan confirms, his hope fading into resigned anger, “Loghain would have us believe all Grey Wardens died along with my nephew, amongst other things.”

“You do not believe Loghain’s Lies?” I ask softly, hope lacing my own voice.

“What, that he pulled his men in order to save them?” Teagan asks with a dismissive gesture, his jaw setting and suppressed fury coloring each word. “That Cailan risked everything in the name of glory? Hardly.” 

I watch the mask of rage set over Teagan’s face, taking his silver eyes back to deep, smoky blue. His hands unconsciously ball into fists, and he sets his body as if about to draw his blade to face down a foe. I am quite impressed by the lean man’s presence. At his angered words, everything becomes silent within the Chantry hall. All eyes turn to the Bann, a hundred odd refugee women, children, and injured men all holding their breath.

“Loghain calls the Grey Wardens traitors, murderers of the King.” Teagan continues, voice calm and raised with conviction, determination, but not rage, “I don’t believe it. It is an act of a desperate man.” He and Alistair share a knowing nod, a confirmation of old alliance reborn with this meeting. 

Teagan’s eyes fall upon me and soften, actually seeming to see me for the first time. “So…” he starts, then gives me that long top-to-toe look that I have seen every man we have encountered give to Leliana. An appreciative smile spreads Teagan’s lips and the blue fades back to a soft grey in his eyes as he continues, “you are a Grey Warden as well? It is a pleasure to meet you, though I wish it were under better circumstances.” I incline my head in agreement, then look back into his fascinating eyes as he describes his brother’s illness, the lack of response from the castle, and the nightly attacks.

“We can help you drive them back,” I hear myself volunteering our aid before I register that I have done so, but one large and one delicate hand alight upon my shoulders with echoed soft squeezes of support, and I know I have made the correct decision.  
“Thank you,” Bann Teagan says, standing straighter, “thank you. This means more to me than you can guess.” He sends Tomas to advise the village mayor, Murdoch, of the additional aid, and briefs my small band on the two-tier defenses of the village before sending us to speak to Murdoch ourselves to determine how we may best be of aid. 

We take our leave of the Bann, but as we are about to exit the Chantry, particularly forlorn crying catches our attention, and we stop to talk with a girl just younger than myself. She introduces herself as Caitlin, and explains that her brother, Bevin has gone missing. Leliana is deeply moved by the girl’s story, and I resolve to help, for which Leliana is grateful.

Murdoch, the village Mayor and head of the militia, is not best pleased to be talking to a woman, and a mage at that, but he at least has the sense not to refuse our help. He lets us know that there are several obstacles he has been unable to overcome. First, repairs are needed and the blacksmith refuses. Second, there are not enough men, and one of the few veteran warriors in the village, Dwynn, has holed up in his own shanty and refused to aid in the town’s defense. Morale is obviously low, and I have seen many injured. 

I take Leliana and Alistair to the dockside, and we quickly find Morrigan and Sten. It takes great convincing to get Morrigan to start brewing basic Elfroot salves from our supplies. I spend the entire time for unloading the supplies trying to elicit agreement that she will help bandage wounds and distribute elixirs and salves to the few healers and many wounded. I am finally able to convince her with the simple expedient that the more men greet the sunset on their feet, the more likely we are to survive the night. Sten has combat experience, and I remind him that he is on this mission to atone for past failures. I give him orders to start that atonement now by assisting in the readiness of these troops to defend themselves. He assents, but only after I give him a full rehash of my logic in preserving this weakened village so that its fighting force will be available for future use against the Blight which threatens all of Thedas. Before sending him off to assist, I gain agreement from the whole party to meet back at these docks when the sun is at its zenith.

Leliana and Alistair accompany me back toward town for their own assignments. Gaining Alistair’s agreement to convince the Blacksmith to start repairs is a simple matter of giving him leave to make any promises necessary with full knowledge that I will support him unquestioningly in keeping them. I send Leliana to find young Bevin, which she wanted to do anyway, and I begin searching through the town to find Dwynn. I come upon a closed shop on the way with a stash of lamp oil sufficient to light every room in the circle tower all day long for a month. I am still considering potential uses when I find the shack Murdoch described as being Dwynn’s. Knocks and summons are unanswered. Fearing the worst, I reach out with my power and rip open the door.  
Dwynn, a dwarf to my surprise, is alive and well inside, along with multiple armed thugs. My relief at finding living occupants is short lived as the surly dwarf snarls at me for breaking his door and demands I leave. I refuse intimidation, and demand instead that he extend his support to the whole of the town. “What’s in it for me?” He asks.

I feel my hands ball into fists at the short-sighted mercenary attitude, and force myself to relax because, of course, the dwarf is a mercenary. “I will put in a good word with Bann Teagan,” I say to him with unerring logic, “after all, having the nobility owe you favors is good for business.”

He cocks his head at me as though considering this for the first time just now. “All right,” he tells me, “but you better be out there fighting right beside me tonight.”

“Count on it,” I tell him with a smile, and send him and the thugs to go assist in readying the militia.

Swinging by the docks, I see the sun still has quite a way to travel before we are to meet, so I head up toward the distant windmills, where Ser Perth is supposed to be keeping the first defensive line. Perhaps he will see a use for the oil stock.  
Ser Perth cuts a striking figure in this shining plate armor, his long, auburn hair shining in the morning sunlight. The pauldrons make his shoulders appear dramatically large, but I would wager that under the plates he is lean and wiry, much like Bann Teagan. There is a similarity in the line of narrow cheeks and soft grey eyes as well, and I wonder if he might be cousin to the Bann. 

Ser Perth greets me with a warmth and respect I had not expected. He nervously asks how to properly address me, and I give him my name. He insists on the formality, however, of calling me Warden. I assume this is because my obvious youth would make it a temptation to dismiss me otherwise. Ser Perth is also the first person in this whole area to speak openly of hope in surviving the night before I even offer aid. I tell him of the large stock of oil, looking at the winding path to the castle and the knights hastily erecting barricades.

“No one told me of this,” he says with some surprise. “Oil, you say? How much exactly?”

“Enough to light every lamp in the village for weeks, or set an entire horde on fire,” I tell him, feeling a vicious grin curve my lips as I do so.

“Assuming that would hurt them…” he considers for a moment, gazing up the path of fortifications himself. He turns his eyes to me as if seeing me now for the first time, and smiles broadly. “Yes,” he says “excellent idea! I’ll send some men to collect the oil. We’ll use it to slow these creatures down.”

We share a conspiratorial smile, and I can feel both our confidence levels rise. I ask him if there is any further assistance I can offer, and he tells me of a desire for some divine support, so it is back down to the Chantry I run. I meet Leliana at the Chantry doors as she ruffles the hair of a young boy and asks him the legends of the shining green blade she holds in her hands. 

“Is this Bevin?” I ask as I approach. “Yes,” she tells me with a smile, “this brave, young adventurer went to find his grandfather’s sword to wield against the monsters, only it is too heavy for even me. I have promised that should he let Alistair use it to defend the village tonight, we will return it when the battle is won.” I bow solemnly to the boy, thanking him on behalf of the Grey Wardens for his faith, courage and support.

The boy beams, and I walk him back to his sister after asking that Leliana find and arm Alistair. Inside the Chantry I speak with Mother Hannah, which involves a significant theological debate before she finally assents to sending holy symbols to the knights. That done, I feel I still have some time left before meeting my companions, so I seek out Bann Teagan to learn what I can from him of his brother’s illness and the village’s plight. 

I open with the simple question of why the Bann is in the Chantry, tending the villagers. The many histories I had read in the tower portrayed nobles as always standing apart from their common charges. The Bann chuckles at this question, blaming Ser Perth for putting him in the Chantry for his own protection. I ask if we should station more men inside the Chantry with him as the last line of defense. He declines politely, stating that every man that can fight should be stationed to halt the menace without the women and children exposed to the horror. His sudden pallor and the unconscious shudder he displays convince me that before Ser Perth insisted, the Bann was indeed fighting alongside the villagers.

“Just what kind of enemy are we facing?” I ask of him.

“I do not know,” he tells me, dropping his eyes and shaking his head, “they seem to be walking corpses, men with rotting flesh that continue to attack even with the gravest injuries. All I know,” with a sigh, he brings pain-stricken eyes to my own, “is that they do not fall easily. You hack them to pieces and still they come.”

“Do you have many of Arl Eamon’s knights here?” I ask, wanting to reach out with hand or will to drive the soul-wrenching pain from this man’s eyes.

“I have some few who have returned from their quest,” he replies. “You know of this, yes?”

“Their search for the Urn of Sacred Ashes.” I confirm, remembering a chance encounter back in Lothering. 

“Yes,” he tells me, “I question Isolde’s decision to send so many knights in search of this relic, but I am a practical man whereas she is a woman of great faith.” The strain in his voice when just mentioning Isolde is a palpable thing, and I remember Alistair’s memory of what must have been his final moments with Teagan as a lad. 

“Tell me more about yourself?” I find myself asking before I can stop the words.

Bann Teagan is as surprised as I am at my question, and questions why I want to know in the midst of so much chaos and strife. I must think quickly and use every bit of charm at my disposal to convince him that my error of polite inquiry is no misaimed attempt at flirtation or heinous social gaffe. Eventually I talk around to convincing him that as allies in the battle to come it aids us both to know more of one another. The end result of my verbal jig is that the Bann looks on me with thoughtful respect glowing from silver eyes and gives me an abbreviated tale of his exploits with a sword in Ansburg. 

“Then it is not just for your safety that you stand last before the women and children,” I say in admiration.

He laughs, stating that there are many swordsmen far superior in skill to himself.

“Let us hope then that the only skills you will need tonight are those for calming children and allaying the fears of the women who will have brothers and fathers fighting at my side,” I tell him with a soft smile.

He laughs, and I go on to ask about his family and whether he knows any of what may be going on within the walls of Redcliffe Castle. His eyes go stark with dread. “I know nothing of what is happening within the castle,” he tells me somberly, “I can only hope that rumors have been exaggerated and my brother is well.”

Seeing the strain and worry about his eyes, I speak the fear in them aloud. “And if he’s not?”

“I don’t know,” he says with great weariness staining his voice. “Eamon and Isolde have a son, Connor, but he is a boy of only nine summers and not ready to take on the responsibility of being Arl. Isolde is Orlesian, so the Bannorn would never stand for her as regent, which means I’d have to do it.”

Knowing that such responsibility is easier to bear when shared, I step closer and ask softly, “do you have any family yourself?”

“Oh, you mean am I married?” He looks at me for a long, considering moment, “I… no. I’ve been far too busy managing Rainesfere to search for a wife.” He turns his head to the side and truly looks at me, a small smile curling the corners of his mouth, “If I started that search, I’d be lucky to find a woman as lovely as yourself.”

“Flatterer,” I laugh softly, feeling glad that I have brought even a momentary smile to the Bann’s careworn face.

“If I may be so bold,” He says after a moment, “what of you, my lady? Are you married?”

“I’m a mage,” I say softly, sadly, turning away.

“Mages have married before,” the Bann muses, a helpful tone in his voice, “or so I’m told.”

“In Orlais and Starkhaven, maybe” I say, turning back to the Bann with a sad smile, “Ferelden’s Circle doesn’t even allow us to know our parents. If one of us bears a child, the babe is taken and raised by the Chantry.” I pause, knowing I have let too much of my own bitterness into the conversation. “I have read the tales of Imperial and Royal enchanters being given leave to marry,” I say with a true smile, “but even if I managed such a position, the man would have to be very brave indeed.”

“I can think of many reasons for a man to be so brave,” he all but whispers as his eyes meet mine. He clears his throat a moment later and re-squares his shoulders, smiling at me gently “But I am indeed too bold, and this is not the time.”

He takes my hand, bowing over it. “Please accept my humble apology,” he says.

“For what?” I ask with an impish grin, “I am not offended.”

“You are too kind, my lady,” he tells me with a sad echo of my smile, “among many other things.”

“I should get back to the defense of your village,” I say with an affectionate tone and a gesture toward the Chantry doors.

I turn and leave the Chantry, feeling assessing eyes on my backside as I go. I have no fear for Bann Teagan’s traumatized soul. He will recover nicely from the horror he has faced here. A weapon, Cullen called my beauty in Alistair’s memory. Not only a weapon, it would seem, but a gift and distraction should I learn to use it properly. I grin all the way to the dockside.

Morrigan is filling flasks with elfroot elixir as I approach, my other comrades having not yet returned. I help with the final preparations for the potions that can energize men and help speed the knitting of their wounds. I am well aware that Morrigan will protest again when I go to distribute the potions, but I will think of more rationale for her when the time comes. The greater argument will be in convincing her to stand with Bann Teagan inside the chantry as an infinitely more effective last line of defense than just the Bann himself.

I am still considering how to convince her when Alistair and Leliana walk up together, laughing for all the world like old friends. Alistair has the fine, green-colored blade suspended from his baldric, and his prior blade from the Chanters in Lothering is now riding across Leliana’s back. 

“How did it go?” I ask Alistair, and he and Leliana both wrinkle their noses in distaste.

“I am astounded the man can heven hold his hammer steady, he was so full of ale,” Leliana tells me, even as Alaistair begins his report. 

He explains that it took much persuasion to convince the blacksmith, Owain, to even let him in the doors to talk, and he might not have managed that but for Leliana’s sweet voice added to his own. He smiles at her fondly, and a very strange mix of jealous and possessive emotions war with pure joy at seeing both of them share simple humor.

Leliana takes over, telling me that the “poor man” has a daughter in Redcliffe Castle that no one would look for, and he refused to work until someone promised to go.  
“Are we going to have to solve the problems of every peasant we encounter?” Morrigan demands with rolled eyes and an exasperated gesture.

“We were headed to Redcliffe Castle next anyway,” I remind her, “does it not benefit us to make a favor for a blacksmith out of something we are already planning to do?”  
Morrigan turns shrewd eyes on me and nods in consideration. 

“And speaking of favors,” I continue, “this evening we will need you to stand with the Bann as the last line of defense within the Chantry itself. Please try your best not to insult too many of the Sisters or the frightened refugees.  
Morrigan opens her mouth to protest, but I look at her with pleading eyes. “Fine,” she says after a moment, inclining her head to me. 

“Thank you, Morrigan,” I say gently, “your support means more than you know.”

She rolls her eyes again, and lifts a satchel full of potions, unguents, and cloth bandages. “As I will be there all night, I will go distribute all these supplies as you would no doubt be asking me to anyway.” 

She stalks off toward the Chantry, and I run to catch up and make proper introduction. Bann Teagan watches her warily, even as he thanks us both for the support. I give my best encouragements, and run into Sten as I leave the Chantry once again.  
Sten has the ghost of a smile on his face as he goes about inspecting and shoring up the make-shift defenses placed about the squat, stone building. As I approach Sten, his smile falls away and he fixes me with a stern gaze. “Why are we wasting time with this hopeless battle that we have little chance of winning?” He asks me with condemnation in his tone.

“Well,” I start, giving him an assessing gaze from toe to helm, “you are fighting this battle to defend a village otherwise doomed, and thus atone for my people that you slew without cause. The rest of us, we fight so this will not be a hopeless battle and when we do win, we will have seasoned men to turn against the Blight.”

“Fitting,” he says with a nod, possibly even a respectful nod, in my direction. We walk in silence to report to Murdoch before returning to Leliana and Alistair. We sit down together on the edge of the docks to share a meal and take some rest before the long night’s battle to come. My stomach growls loudly, and I look at Alistair innocently, asking if he might have any gravy. He bursts out laughing and soon I am joining him in great peals of mirth. Sten shakes his head and sighs, setting off Leliana’s musical giggle and making Alistair laugh all the more. Eventually the hunger overcomes the humor, and we all set to our midday repast with determination.

Sten kneels by the lake to meditate, and Alistair doffs his armor and is snoring moments after. Leliana and I compare tales of our minor adventures this morn, and I regale her with the unexpected flirtation from Bann Teagan, mentioning that I have a suspicion that I am catnip to the high born. She mentions that men looked at the sisters of the Chantry much the same. 

I urge her to tell me more about how she travelled far to seek safe harbor in Lothering, and what her life of peace and contemplation was like before I pulled her from it. I feel my own eyes grow heavy, even as she trails off and catches herself to keep from slumping. Feeling too fatigued to shy from the suggestion, I motion to Alistair and suggest to Leliana that his shoulders are softer than the ground. Also bone-weary, she nods agreement, and she crawls the pace necessary to lay her head on his near shoulder. I stand and walk around to use his far shoulder for my own pillow, tucking myself gently between his torso and arm, my battle harness shucked near his own armaments on the way. Sleep overcomes me in moments.

I slowly become aware of soft voices and the red and amber light of sunset warming my skin. Alistair is attempting to ask romantic advice from Leliana, but manages to do so in such an endearingly awkward fashion that she cannot help but laugh and tease him good-naturedly like an older sister. 

I know I am not supposed to hear the exchange, so I let several long moments pass before I yawn and stretch, rolling over and giving a dreamy look to Alistair before I push myself off his lap and sit all the way upright. I am rewarded with Alistair’s convulsive swallows and a wide-eyed look as of prey facing a mabari in full charge. I suppress my smile as gaze at the setting sun and ask why I have been allowed to sleep so long. 

Both Leliana and Alistair cough nervously, and Sten’s heavy boots shake the docks as he stomps over in irritation. “Have we not a battle to prepare for?” He demands.

“Yes,” I tell him unhurriedly, and we will be up the hill with the knights in short order. “Would you mind helping Alistair buckle his armor?” I ask Sten politely, then call to all of my remaining companions, “I will meet you up near the mill as soon as you can get there. We will join the front lines with Ser Perth, but first I will check in with Murdoch.”

I swing myself into my battle harness and motion to Leliana, who rapidly helps me buckle it in place. Murdoch reports excellent morale among his troops, and I head up the hill, stopping at the tavern on the way to secure a free round of drinks for our militia before ordering the barmaid down to the Chantry.

As the last rays of the sun fade across the lake, a great moaning arises from the keep upon the cliffs nearby. We hear the shuffling of feet and clanking of ill-fitting armor well before we see the first of the shambling hoard of corpse-men. Slowly, ominously, they come at us down the mountain side. They approach as though they are an inevitability that we cannot face, but Ser Perth’s knights hold their ground. As they close in on the last line of barricades, Ser Perth gives the call, and the barricade lights. 

The first of the hoard stumble slowly through the flames and fall as they char, but a great, unearthly roar rises from those behind. The corpse-men begin to charge, barreling through the flames at speed, climbing over their fallen as though not troubled by the uneven ground. I reach out with my magic, and while these things have no spirit, no essence of their own, the power that animates them feels familiar enough for me manipulate it, turning it on itself. 

The first group to charge through the flames explodes in a shower of bone bits and rotting flesh. Fortunately, it explodes backward, as I had intended, pelting the rank still in the flames with the shrapnel of their fallen fore-guard. The rank still within the flames falls and does not stand back up, but the spatter of their rancid gore snuffs much of the burning oil. A further group charges before the bits of cloth and remaining fat upon the fallen corpses can ignite, and they come through the flames almost unscathed. My companions and the knights join the fray in earnest, fighting sword to sword. Teagan’s description was accurate. Faced in this way, the undying corpse-men do no fall easily, and more than once I must call to a knight to fall back and tend his wounds, lest my force dwindle in size. I aim my attention farther up the cliffs, reducing the number of corpse-men rank by rank before they can reach the flaming barricade. I cannot destroy every rank thus, however, and I feel myself grow weary. I stop for a moment, falling back myself, and pull one of my few remaining potions of distilled lyrium from my harness, drinking it down and stowing the flask. 

Gore-covered and panting, Alistair and Sten fall back to my sides moments later. “They have slowed,” Sten observes, and I feel my way up the path through the weave of life and energy, confirming his thought. Something tugs at my mind though, and I cast my consciousness out and down, toward the village. Fear permeates the lower defense tier, and there is a single man racing toward us, terror held in check only by the purest determination I have ever known. 

“We are needed below,” I say to my comrades as well as Ser Perth. My group reaches the head of the lower path at the same moment as the winded runner. 

“Monsters are attacking across the lake” the runner pants. 

“Knights!” I call out, “Stay here and guard the path.” Ten gauntleted fists snap sharply against ten steel breastplates as I race down the path, Alistair, Sten, and Leliana fast on my heels.

As we round the final curve in the path, it is as though my blight night-mares have become flesh. A seething mass of rotting corpses fights blade-to-blade with Murdoch’s men inside his barricades. Four of the creatures are attacking Murdock himself. I reach out and shield him in the same breath that I turn the magic animating one of his attackers back on itself. I realize the folly even as I tie off the weave. I try to call to all of the men to take cover, but they cannot hear me over the melee. I order all my companions to join the fray, support the militia where they may, try to form up groups, anything to get the corpses back outside the defensive perimeter. A half-hundred shouts of agony accompany the air-splitting boom of the corpse-man’s explosion and I know a moment of guilt as I race in myself. I pull men from the field of carnage about Murdoch, shoving potions of elfroot into hands as I urge them to fall back toward the Chantry. 

Those with enough sense comply and drag their comrades with them, downing the potions as they go. I stretch my thoughts farther back, attempting to find clusters assembling on the shore behind the town’s buildings to devastate. I find few assembled clusters, and must soon defend myself with my staff as the closest waves push over the barricades again. I use the crushing prison weave as often as I can, and try to extend my shields to save the hopelessly outnumbered militia men long enough for their comrades to turn the tides in their favor. I nod in appreciation as I see more than one of the men fall back and place a flask to his lips, returning to the melee even as wounds begin to knit themselves.

Alistair is able to organize a few of the militia men into a shield wall to plug one breach, as Sten places himself in the center of another. Leliana climbs to high ground and showers the oncoming corpses with arrows. Against men, hers would be an impenetrable rain of death. It only delays the corpses. That delay is all I need, however. With the last of the living behind the barricades, I put my final remaining flask of distilled lyrium to my lips and swallow. Reaching out beyond our barricades, I weave the contagious catalyst into the magic of first one, then another walking corpse. 

“Shields!” I scream to Alistair as best I can, and I wrap Sten’s great form in a shield of my own will. One heartbeat, two, three, and the explosions start. 

“Hold!” I yell as best I can over the mingled cheers and screams of terror. 

“Hold!” I call in the silent awe following the second round of explosions. 

“Hold!” I call as a third wave of explosions sounds beyond the barricades, and I feel my own hold on the protective shields around Sten slipping. 

I sink to my knees, panting. My head reels and throbs even as the sound of swords clashing echoes again through the night. Eventually, a soft hand lands upon my shoulder, and another forces a sparkling flask into mine. “Morrigan said you might need this,” Leliana’s voice sounds in my ear as I uncork the flask and swallow.

The double-distilled lyrium-infused spirits flood through my veins, and I am on my feet in a breath. I stretch my consciousness out to the shore and seek the rearmost of the enemy once more. I weave the contagious catalyst again and again into the magic animating them and revel in the cheers that greet my myriad explosions. An angry howl from the direction of the castle grates across my mind as one by one the animated corpses fall. Whether torn apart from the shrapnel of my explosions, or hacked to pieces by the swords of the militia, nearly a thousand corpses litter the streets within and without the barricades. “Take the wounded inside,” I call to the men behind me. “Let the healers save all who can be saved.” I continue stretching my consciousness to the farthest limits I’ve ever known and past. “For the rest of you,” I add, feeling the weary, hungry, but hopeful mass of humanity just behind me, “eat, drink, rest in shifts. This night may not yet be over.” The sound of forty-odd gloved hands striking vests of boiled leather and chainmail does not have the resounding ring of an all-steel salute, but it is no less heady to be so honored.

Alistair is at my side in a moment, and I lean on him wearily “I’m sorry,” I say, looking up at him with tears in my eyes, “I think I hurt some of the men. I couldn’t shape all of the blasts away from them.”

Alistair’s arm wraps about my shoulders, and he leans toward me, shielding me from any prying eyes. “A Warden does whatever it takes,” he whispers to me softly, “and every man still standing tonight owes his life to you.”

I take a deep breath and square my shoulders, wiping the tears that did not fall away with the sleeve of my robe. “Whatever it takes, you say?” I ask him with a determined gleam in my eye.

“Whatever it takes,” he confirms sadly, looking across the field of carnage with a stricken gaze.

“I’m holding you to that,” I say to him with a wicked grin.

“What does that mean?” He asks in confusion.

“You’ll see,” I say in the same tone he used to describe Duncan’s unhelpful explanation of post-Joining changes.

Alistair laughs, and the assembled militia cheer. “Now go check on all those wounded would you,” I ask, feigning impatience and shoving his plate-clad ribs even as my body is yearning to be nearer his, “you are much too distracting and I am watching for monsters.”

“Your desire is my command,” he murmurs to me, bowing playfully before moving away.

I stand alone atop the rubble of a breached barricade until the pinks and purples of dawn paint the far horizon. I do not feel the horrid presence of the foul, corpse-animating magic again from the lakeshore, nor do I hear further sounds of skirmish from above. Runners up and down the path to the mill confirm all is quiet through the rest of the long night.

As the first rays of dawn paint the castle upon the far cliffs above, I climb down from my vantage and rap upon the Chantry door with my staff. Bann Teagan himself helps drag the doors wide to greet the morning. Mother Hannah cocks her head at me, shrewd assessment in her gaze, as she goes out to the troops. She repeats the Maker’s blessings over and over as she details healers to begin work on the more significant of the wounded we did not feel were critical enough to force into the chantry before morning. Murdoch also steps from the shelter of the stone building. I vaguely recalled him being slipped in on a shield just after my last rounds of explosions. Morrigan rolls her eyes as she emerges as though to tell me I may never hear the end of her night in that building. I smile at this last, even as I wearily climb the steps to greet Bann Teagan.

“Dawn arrives, my friends,” Teagan says expansively to the Militia assembled before us, and the women and children rushing out of the doors to be reunited, “and all of us remain.”  
I look to Alistair, my eyes wide, and he smiles broadly, placing a proud and somewhat possessive hand upon my shoulder.

Bann Teagan continues his oration, miming the grasping of victory from the jaws of defeat. I’m too fatigued to catch the exact words, but I note that he lays the miracle of victory directly at my feet, making all the villagers aware if they weren’t already that it was the Grey Wardens of Ferelden that came to the village’s aid in their darkest hours. With one voice, the village cheers, and Bann Teagan turns to face me directly upon the Chantry steps. “I bow to you, my lady,” he says, inclining his head respectfully to me. “Surely the Maker smiled on us all when he sent you to me in our darkest hour.”

“Catnip,” I think to myself as I smile at the unabashed admiration and desire in the Bann’s eyes, inclining my head in return. Alistair’s hand tightens slightly on my shoulder, and I must keep my head lowered for an extra moment to mask my blush. When I bring my eyes back to Teagan’s, he is sharing a look with Alistair as his shoulders fall in resignation. He offers me a legendary helm in thanks for our great effort. I decline at first, even feeling the runic inscriptions of pronounced power emanating from the piece. I tell Bann Teagan and the villagers I need no reward to do what is right. The Bann insists, however, and I accept the gift to the roared delight of the crowd. I vow to them that it will be used well in defense of our lands and people. Morrigan sighs in annoyance, and I find myself smiling all the more for her predictable annoyance.


	12. Storming the castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle for Redcliffe Castle is punctuated with some very important confessions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes some moderately graphic violence and a whole lot of sappy emotional things. I've borrowed canon conversation in places. I've tried to limit that to only the most essential lines that establish Alistair the way Bioware created him. It's important to me to have that personality core strongly fleshed before I get to my non-canon twists so that the character isn't disintegrated when put up against situations novel to his experience. Alistair is, after all, one of the primary reasons I keep re-playing the game.

I pay little attention to the prayers or promises to rebuild as the impromptu victory ceremony on the steps of the Redcliffe Chantry drags on. I think I even fall briefly asleep leaning back against Alistair’s very solid person. I am fully aware as the impromptu ceremony ends, and delighted to find Alistair has secured me upright against himself with one strong arm about my waist. I press gently on the arm, and Alistair releases me to ask the Bann what is to come next. Teagan brushes me off, insisting I rest and resupply as I can, but promising her will give the plan up at the mill when I am ready. He takes his leave and I call my companions together. I bid Alistair and Leliana to return the beautiful green blade to Bevin and Caitlyn. Morrigan is about to protest when I pull her aside to speak in whispers. 

“There is method to this,” I tell her. “I am now an apostate mage and a member of an order needing rebuilt. The act of taking that sword, defending this village with it, and returning it to its rightful owner will be repeated and repeated for as long as any in this village draw breath. In this one act, I have ensured reverence for apostate mages and an endless supply of future recruits to my banner. I must act for more than myself,” I tell her with a finality to my tone that brooks no opposition, “because I am more than myself.” 

Morrigan gazes at me sidelong, and nods her head with an expression of mingled respect and assessment. “Fair enough,” she says after a moment, “and what would you have of me?”

“We are in the shadow of the Circle Tower,” I whisper to her, drawing her close, “and there were rumors upon rumors of black-market lyrium trade in the port towns upon these shores. I would have you find this trade and replenish our supplies. Greater battles are yet to come.” She nods at me, grinning wolfishly.

I assign Sten the further atonement of assisting the village to rebuild, and head up to the mill with Alistair and Leliana. “Ignoring the walking corpses,” I say about halfway up the path, “Is Redcliffe much like you remember it, Alistair?”

“Everything was much larger,” he says with a laugh, and spins a tale of great adventure under the docks at Lake Calenhad. Leliana and I are hugging ourselves tightly to keep our guts from ripping with laughter over Alistair’s misadventures as we reach the mill. Bann Teagan is himself smiling as our girlish giggles echo across the hillside. He is only just beginning to lay out his plan to sneak into the castle by way of a secret path through the mill when a pale woman wearing the finest gown I have ever laid eyes upon rushes up to us. Her sharp nose, high cheekbones, and tightly bound blonde hair are unchanged from Alistair’s memory, I realize even as Bann Teagan calls out her name.

“Isolde!”

I cannot bring myself to focus entirely on the conversation between Bann Teagan and Arlessa Isolde, but I do not miss the look of rage and revulsion she aims at Alistair when he introduces himself. I find myself twitching to weave the crushing prison for this woman, and the darkness caged within my soul howls in triumph. I take an unconscious step back and shake my head, everyone looking at me. I force myself back into the moment and realize that Isolde has just demanded Teagan go back to the castle with her, alone. I review her shifty behavior since she has come up the mountainside, and her frequent gazes back up the path. “I get the feeling you are not telling us everything,” I say shrewdly.

The Arlessa turns a vicious and tearful face upon me, snarling that my statement is impertinent. “Not if it is true,” I say to all assembled, my back as straight as I can make it. She wails and demands what I want from her after bemoaning the tragedy having befallen her family. She lays blame for all at the feet of a mage, she says has been captured, and when questioned, she calls him an infiltrator, a poisoner, and a member of the castle staff. Yet, there was no mage assigned to Castle Recliffe when I left the Tower, and I had heard no rumor of one on the way here. There is, indeed, much the noblewoman is hiding, and if I bore her any good will or pity upon meeting her, I no longer do. 

Bann Teagan gallantly offers to return alone with this Isolde, yet before I can protest, he requests the lady give him time to finish his discussion with my group. I give him a wary eye, and he confesses that he does not want to return thus, but has little choice. He is under no illusions of the danger he places himself in, but he must see to the safety of his brother and nephew, so he arms me with his signet ring and the knowledge of a secret passageway in through the mill. I wish the Maker’s blessings for his safety and hold his hand for a moment longer than necessary when taking the signet, trying to impart my concern and my hope for his continued welfare. He smiles at me sadly, and I realize his words yesterday were far more than mere flattery. 

My companions and I watch stoically until Bann Teagan and the Arlessa Isolde disappear from view, then dart quickly into the mill. The door to the secret passageway is not difficult to locate, and we are down a dark passage in moments. I whisper a soft incantation, bringing my will into my staff, and crystals embedded in its length set forth a soft glow. I return it to the harness across my back, and motion my companions before me, so that none of us stare directly at the source of the light as we travel quickly and quietly through the otherwise pitch-black passage. In short order, we are at a steel and oak door, and I slip the signet into Alistair’s hand so that he may use it as a key. I let my hand linger in the passing of the object. Alistair squeezes my hand reassuringly, and I feel fortified for whatever we are to face ahead.

The door is covered in rust as well as the scale and thread-like growths common to caves, but its hinges allow it to swing toward us in complete silence. I nod appreciatively as we pass through, leaving the portal open behind us in case we must retreat this way hurriedly. We cross quickly through a section of dungeons that appears completely forgotten to a door with a viewing grate. Ahead, we can see a small cluster of shambling corpses reaching through the bars of a secured cell at the far end of the next passage. Leliana steps forward and makes short work of the lock upon the grated door, and we lay waste to the moaning, shambling corpses before they can even comprehend that a change in the direction of their intentions should be warranted. 

“Hello?” I hear a familiar voice echo from the cells ahead, and cannot bring myself to believe. “Is there someone out there? Who is it?” I know that voice almost as well as I know my own. A thousand warring emotions flood my heart as I motion my companions silently forward.

“By all that’s holy…” the caged man says as I step before his cell and look directly into his eyes, “you! I can’t believe it.”  
“Jowan?” I ask, not certain whether I want to believe what my ears and now eyes are confirming.

“Maker’s Breath!” My friend curses in surprise, “How did you get here? I never thought to see you again of all people!”  
“Jowan,” I whisper to the man I once thought of as the nearest to a brother I would actually be allowed to have, “What has happened to you?”

He hangs his head in shame before the concern I cannot keep from my eyes, and the story comes flooding out about the Arl’s son, Connor, who has shown signs of being a mage. The Arlessa sought an apostate to teach the boy control, to hide his talent and keep him close. Jowan confesses readily to poisoning the Arl at behest of Teyrn Loghain, but claims no responsibility for the walking corpses. He fears, he says, that the boy has torn the veil, and may even be an abomination. He confesses his guilt in all of the horrors that have befallen Redcliffe and begs only to know what became of the woman he loved. I tell him the cold truth, that she was banished to Aeonar for her part in his escape I let him crumple in self-recrimination for a moment. 

“Why, Jowan?” I ask the Malificar, “Why dabble in forbidden magic knowing all the risk to not only yourself but all who ever cared for or about you?” 

“I was weak,” he wispers, “so much less than all of the other apprentices, so much slower than you in grasping theory. So helpless when the Templar initiates would silence our magic and torment us.”

“They what?” I ask in absolute shock.

“They never touched you,” he says with mingled self-pity and envy, “I once saw Knight-Captain Harrith pin an initiate to the wall by his throat for suggesting they practice their silence on you and see just how well you’d been taught to serve man.”   
I shudder at the words, remembering how the initiates in Alistair’s memory had talked about me.

Also Knight-Lieutenant Cullen watched over you like a faithful mabari.”

“You never said,” I swallow at his horrific revelations, “In all the years you were like my brother, you never once told me that they tormented you.”

“What good would it have done?” Jowan laughs bitterly, “would I have had the same protectors you did? Would you have fought my battles for me and made me even less a man that I thought I was?”

“If I had known,” I whisper sadly, resting my hand on the bars of his cell, “I might have understood. We might have found a way to stop it before you made deals with demons.”

“I never met any demons,” he says dejectedly, “I learned the forbidden magic from books.”

I recall the odd pile of books in the First Enchanter’s office the day of my harrowing and feel the truth in Jowan’s words.   
“I’m sorry I condemned you to apostasy when what I should have done was aided you sooner,” I whisper, meeting Jowan’s eyes to show the sincerity of my words. 

All anger and defiance falls from him and he hangs his head in shame. “It was my pride,” he mutters, “what little I had. You could have helped me, or the Senior Enchanters could have, but I wanted to stand unafraid and on my own.” 

“Fear makes idiot out of all of us, Jowan,” I tell him sadly, “I was afraid when you asked me to help because I knew you weren’t telling me everything. When the First Enchanter told me you were a blood mage, I was afraid of you. You were suddenly this horrible thing out of the legends we would frighten each other with at night. I betrayed you out of fear, never thinking that you were every bit as terrified.”

I feel the tears slip down my cheeks as Jowan and I look at one another. He cries openly and without care for the loos of control the tears represent.

“I’m sorry for all that I’ve done,” Jowan laments, “I’ve made a mess of everything, but I want to make it right.” 

“You were a good man once, Jowan,” I say as we take each other’s hand through the bars, forgiving one another for so much, “you can be one again.”

I can feel Alistair’s shock and anger even as I take Jowan’s hand in friendship. “Everyone deserves the chance to redeem himself,” Leliana tells him softly.

“He used that chance to attempt to murder a good man,” Alistair’s voice drips with barely controlled fury.

“Why, Jowan,” I ask once more, but this time holding my friend’s hand, inviting understanding rather than condemning an action unexplained.

“I was stupid and afraid,” he tells me.

Even Alistair’s very understandable rage at the man who poisoned the Arl is reduced to a low smolder by Jowan’s explanation of how he was captured by Templars, who were in turn slain by Loghain’s men. Jowan’s rescuers listened to him, believed him, and convinced him he was serving the crown by infiltrating the Arl’s household and reporting the illegal activities. He hadn’t been installed for very long when the messenger came with poison and instructions. Jowan gives me the note and I read it. 

*****  
Mage,   
Our King has fallen. Eamon’s brother foments unrest and threatens to divide the Landsmeet when unity of purpose is our greatest need. Thedas can ill afford delays of political maneuvering with a Blight upon our doorstep. Eamon is the figurehead. Neutralize him for now and there will be no banner to flock behind. Ferelden should have a full accounting of his crimes and a just trial, and we will when the Blight is halted and its immediate threat to our very existence is erased. Take care with the dosing, he must be incapacitated, but if he is slain, Ferelden is robbed of the justice she deserves.  
L  
***** 

I hand the note to Alistair. After reading it, he crumples it in his fist with a whispered threat against Logain. 

“We’re going to let you out, and you’re going to help us undo all this,” I tell Jowan.

“He is still a blood mage,” Alistair growls.

“Grey Wardens do not forbid blood magic,” I say softly. “The mandates of our order command defeat of the Blight by any means necessary, Alistair,” I implore calmly, rationally, “Jowan is necessary. Even conscripting him and subjecting him to the Joining may become necessary. If he kills even one darkspawn, or saves even one person who would otherwise fall, he will have served to redeem himself.” 

“However,” Alistair counters with a glare to Jowan, “If Arl Eamon dies, his life is forfeit, and there is nothing even you can do for him.”

I look regretfully at Jowan, and agree. Leliana sets all the tumblers correctly, springing the lock on his cell. “Come,” I command Jowan, and he follows meekly. 

We must clear our way through room after room and hall upon hall of shambling corpses in effort to find Bann Teagan. It appears that those at the castle had far worse matters to contend with than even those at the village endured. We are able to rescue several servants by sending them out through the dungeons, Velena, the village Smith’s daughter, being one of them.  
The path up through the castle is long and grueling, and even Alistair is made grateful for Jowan’s presence as he assists us in laying waste to the monsters. Jowan also has aptitude at healing and bandaging wounds, which I never have. The fact that Leliana can still draw her bow when we reach the courtyards is testament to the usefulness of healing magic, and I determine that I will learn at least the basics of the discipline the second the opportunity arises.

I am just admiring the clean shot of Leliana’s arrow straight through the eye of a grinning skull atop a mostly de-fleshed skeleton which had been aiming its own shot at me, when we hear the most soul-chilling howl I have ever experienced.  
Across the courtyard strides an ancient suit of full-plate armor, inhabited by I know not what. All I do know is it wraps one rusty gauntlet into a fist and pulls back and down. As though my very soul were a chain being so grasped, I am jerked across the courtyard to tumble at the creature’s feet. 

Laying supine at the feet of a foe from which I sense merciless rage and nearly overpowering agony, all I can do is wrap shields around myself and pray. The thing raises a great sword and brings it crashing down toward me. My shield holds, thank the Maker, and continues to hold as he pummels it again and again. Alistair flings himself at the creature, attempting to engage it and draw it away, and one arrow after another sprouts from the plates as Leliana fights to find a vulnerability. Jowan flings a curse at the thing, which it shrugs off. Alistair’s sword clangs against the creature’s helm, which finally draws its focus from me just as I feel my shields waver and collapse. I order Jowan to open the gates and call for Eamon’s knights while I weave the crushing prison about the animated armor. It is more effective than Jowan’s curse, but not by much. The fact that its own magical essence is being refocused against it is the only reason it appears to be feeling any effect, but I find myself relieved when seven knights rush into the fray with Alistair, their piercing and slashing sword strokes slowly wearing down and overcoming the creature. I allow myself to collapse and simply breathe, marveling that it is only midday as I gaze up at the sun above. In a short time, I hear the unnatural creature’s last malevolent scream, and I stand and thank the knights. 

I ask Jowan to tend to any wounds they might have while I search for understanding of what we just faced. Beneath the fallen armor and rags is a tattered strip of age-yellowed parchment bearing the barely discernable words “Festis autem omnis canavarum” and several sigils holding lingering traces of power that fizzle out as I read the words. It is only because of an assignment Justine gave me in knowing the most fearful demons and their physical manifestations that I am able to put together the horrible truth. A revenant unearthed itself in Redcliffe Castle and has been stalking its courtyards. I fear what further horrors we will find within the halls of the keep. 

My companions and I enter the main hall with great trepidation, fearing what may have become of Bann Teagan in the hours we have been trying to reach him. We see him almost immediately, dancing about like a court jester and turning flips down the center of the great hall. Arlessa Isolde stands with her face in her hands, weeping silently, and a slight boy of about ten is cheering and clapping his hands. I stop and stare, rage building in my heart for the misuse of a proud and noble man. Several of the palace guard stand in vacant-eyed silence about the hall. 

Leliana’s sharp intake of breath breaks the hold that the scene has on me, and I stride forward, my two companions following mutely in my wake. The child snarls up at me as I approach, and I feel the dual presence staring out from his eyes. Somewhere in that body is the spirit of a terrified and grieving boy, but another presence reaches through a badly torn veil to hold the reins from the Fade. I do not process the words we say to one another, so busy am I surveying the terrified cowering of Isolde and the witless inanity of Bann Teagan’s words and actions. I can see the spark of the true man within his eyes, pleading desperately for the release of death, even as he cavorts about like a maddened puppet. 

The power controlling the child reaches out for me, and the child uses its distraction to flee the room. My will is too strong, and I force the demonic essence back, but not before it sends the guards, and poor Bann Teagan to collect my blood. Isolde runs to one corner of the hall, cowering as best she can behind the stacked cordwood as the others charge me.

I let them come, calling to my comrades to beat them down, but not kill, as I wrap myself in shields and let the guards and Bann Teagan focus their might my way. I can hear Alistair’s curses as he slams guards with his shield and strikes helmed heads with the pommel and flat of his sword. Leliana drops her bow and slips on a buckler that has been riding upon her back beside her quiver. She draws a short-bladed sword with the other hand and dances about the men, doing her best to wound, slow, and incapacitate without killing. As my shields begin to falter, I gather my will back into myself. In a the moment all the attacking guardsmen are distracted, I drop my shields and reach out with my mind, forcibly shoring up the veil in this small area, and severing the link with the possessing creature. Bann Teagan and the guardsmen drop to the ground like puppets with cut strings. All is silence for a moment, save Isolde’s tearful prayers. I reach out a hand and grasp Leliana’s shoulder, steadying myself as I catch my breath. One heaving breath, two, three. As I finally gain some semblance of composure, the men scattered about us on the floor begin to moan and rouse themselves. Alistair strides forth and helps Bann Teagan to his feet.

Isolde rushes to Teagan, wringing her hands in worry. Much to Teagan’s credit, his first words are to reassure the Arlessa that he is himself again. I find I like and respect the Bann more with each word he utters, especially when Jowan enters and Isolde would condemn all his words for lies and blame her son’s possession entirely on the unharrowed apprentice. I remind Isolde that she is just as culpable as Jowan, and she turns a hate-filled snarl upon me. 

“She is right,” Bann Teagan tells his brother’s wife, “The Circle exists for a purpose, Isolde, the mage would not have found access had you not felt yourself above that purpose.” The mask of hatred falls away in seconds, and wide, pleading eyes stare up at Teagan. I know this manipulation for Morrigan described it to me exactly just days ago. Isolde is playing the wilting flower to mask her own culpability. To his credit, Bann Teagan does not let her actions slide. 

The choice falls before us of what to do with Connor. Jowan offers the last resort of a blood sacrifice to send me into the fade to battle the demon and remove its hold upon the child. Isolde immediately offers to sacrifice herself, and for the first time I see her as something other than a conniving harpy. Isolde is a mother, and I remember my own mother’s confession of hiring an apostate to train me in attempt to keep my magic a secret. Isolde’s transgression in hiring Jowan I cannot fault entirely, and so I tell Jowan, “No.”

“There must be another way,” I say, calculating how fast a ship might be able to take us to the Tower. 

Alistair voices my very thought, suggesting we gather mages and lyrium from the Circle. “After all,” he reminds me, “We have the treaty that commands their aid.”

“We are safe for now,” Bann Teagan says warily, casting his gaze toward the upper floors of the castle, “But the demon won’t stay… dormant forever.”

“For one day, two at the most,” I say with determination, “will take that chance.” The idea of slaying a child or his mother to expedite the actions to save him is simply too much for me to bear. I turn my eyes to Jowan, and ask him if he has any magebane or sleeping draughts, advising the whole room that when I was transported across the Waking Sea as a child, I was kept asleep for days in order that I should not inadvertently slay anyone until I had control. Isolde and Teagan look on me in shock, then relief.

“Come,” I say to Alistair and Leliana, “We must ensure the fewest number of dangers to the living remain.” I pause on my way into the inner courts to give further orders, “Teagan, get Ser Perth and his knights to help you burn the bodies of any fallen in the castle, the dungeons, and the village. I don’t think the demon is powerful enough to raise ash.” A bare fist strikes soiled silks in a soldier’s salute, and The Bann heads for the courtyard. 

“Arlessa,” I add last, my voice hard and commanding, “if you want us to have any chance of saving both you and your son, you will find and outfit the swiftest ship in the area to bear us away from the village docks no later than sunset.” She straightens herself as though to argue, then sends a stricken gaze in the direction Connor fled and acquiesces. 

Clearing the creatures, undead and demonic from the keep feels like a slow and arduous process. We must check every room, closet, and wardrobe to be certain we have left no deadly surprise for the defenders to find in our absence. By coincidence, I fall against a desk in the Arl’s study and see a silvery pendant on a thick, leather thong, bearing the symbol of Andraste. Fine veins of gold trace the piece, as if it was painstakingly repaired by binding the shards of the original together with the softer, more costly metal. I pick it up for closer inspection and shove it in my belt pouch as a scream from out in the Foyer alerts me to a new threat. 

I begin to fear we will never see the end of the undead when we reach the last closed door in the castle, and I feel the alert, watchful presence of the demon beyond it. “This is all we can do,” I tell my companions. “Let’s make haste to the Circle.”  
We speed down the stairs and out the great hall doors without seeing another soul. Down the hill we fly as though furies pursue us, and find Morrigan lounging at the windmill. I tell her briefly of the issue with the semi-possessed boy and ask her if she would mind assisting the local apostate in keeping the boy docile until I can return with lyrium from the Circle Tower. She looks at me askance, but agrees and heads up to the castle.

Alistair, Leliana, and I speak to Murdoch, who joyfully leads us to the swift boat and willing crew Isolde arranged to ferry us immediately to the Circle tower dock to gather mage support to end any future monster incursions. Fortunately for me, our return to the village also includes a bevy of grateful women pressing freshly baked and roasted savories upon the heroes that sent their men home alive the night before. Alistair and Leliana do most of the talking as I devour the gifts in desperate attempt to silence my growling stomach. I am still stuffing fresh baked savories into my mouth as I step onto the deck of the low-slung craft chartered for our mission. I cannot help but wonder if this vessel is used for illicit trade as sleek and dark as it rides in the twilight waters of Lake Calenhad. Whether or not I would normally be polite enough not to ask, I am both too weary and my mouth too full to consider the inquiry.

Leliana pops a pastry into her own mouth, and then brazenly asks the captain of the Rebel Queen where we might find berths for the voyage. He looks her up and down, assesses me with the same shrewd gaze, and offers his own cabin as he will not need it for a quick, evening crossing. “Provided,” he says after a moment, and with a lecherous grin, “you clean off the road and battles before you slip between my sheets.” 

“If you will provide us with three buckets of freshly dipped lake water and a ewer of clean water that has been warmed, we will happily acquiesce to your request,” I say with a soft and grateful smile, halting any more racy banter before Alistair can be made to blush. The ship’s captain bows graciously even as he winks saucily at Leliana.

My companions look at me with alternately raised and knitted eyebrows, their expressions ranging from assessing to contemplative, to utterly confused as we wait in the Captain’s quarters for the promised water, but neither says one word until after I have knelt before the first bucket and plunged in my hands, whispering the incantation to move all that soils me into the bucket of water instead. As I stand before my companions, made clean, I smile at their looks of abject awe. “Your turn, Leliana,” I direct gently, gesturing to the second bucket, “come.” She quickly does so, plunging her hands into the bucket just as I did. She shuts her eyes tight as I place my hand upon her head and whisper the incantation. She shivers at the tingle of magic, but does not recoil from my touch.

“Alistair,” I whisper upon removing my hand from the now-clean Leliana, “this may be more difficult due to your training, and if you would rather lick yourself clean, I also understand.” His expression of wonder turns quickly to humor, and he belts out a laugh of pure mirth as he steps forward and plunges his hands into the last bucket of clean water. 

“I trust you will not turn me into a frog,” Alistair says as I place my hand upon his head, and I must suppress giggles before beginning the incantation. Just as Leliana before, Alistair shivers at the tingle of magic without recoiling. As I finish and slip away from him, he brings his hands out of the bucket of completely soiled water and kneels over it, catching his breath for some time. I turn my back to my companions and pour some of the fresh water from ewer to basin, washing my hands and my face to remove the slight sheen that came with the effort of cleaning my companions, as well as to hide the breathless flush that came over me from my extended senses touching the essences of my companions so intimately.

I cannot bring myself to turn around until I hear the cabin’s porthole open and all three buckets full of soiled water splash into the briny lake below. When I do turn, Leliana is already curled into the furs upon the bunk, her lovely face softened in sleep. Alistair is seated at the Captain’s table, thumbing open a scroll case I had seen him pick up and hold from time to time over the last few days. He slips what appears to be a rose out of the case, holding it gently in his hands as he looks up at me and beckons me over to him. When I sink down onto the table, He places the object in my hands, and I am surprised to indeed receive a red rose with a short, gnarled black stem. The petals are still soft and velvety to the touch, despite an unknown amount of time spent locked in a scroll case. The scent of the rose is beautiful, heady but soft, sweet without being cloying. My heart races and my stomach, thankfully silent for once, begins to tie itself in nervous knots. 

“Do you know what this is?” He asks softly, shyly, stepping away from the table and fumbling with the scroll case for a few heartbeats before simply setting it upon the Captain’s table.

“Your new weapon of choice?” I ask it with a playful grin, trying to fight down the fluttering in my chest and the excited knotting of my stomach.

“Yes, that's right,” Alistair quips as he assumes a stance for sword fighting. “Watch as I thrash our enemies with the mighty power of floral arrangements! Feel my thorns, darkspawn! I will overpower you with my rosy scent!” He inhales deeply and sighs as if overpowered by the beauty of a fragrance, and I find myself giggling at his antics even as I stroke the soft petals in admiration. “Or, you know,” he says softly, somberly, “it could just be a rose.” 

He reaches out and strokes one of the petals with a gentle finger, and a surge of heat races through my body as he brushes my fingers as well. “I know that’s pretty dull in comparison,” he finishes as I look up from my study of the rose into the golden flame of his gaze.

“Ah,” I say, my voice breaking, my mind suddenly at a loss for anything to say, “it’s pretty effective,” I finish lamely after a moment. My voice sounds breathy and throaty to my ears, like I’ve not spoken aloud in ages.

“I picked it in Lothering,” he tells me softly, shifting his hand to stroke my cheek rather than the petals of the rose. “I remember thinking: ‘How could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness.’ I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn’t. The darkspawn would have come and their taint would just destroy it.” He breathes in sharply and steps back. 

“So I’ve had it ever since,” he says with a shrug and a self-effacing smile. Before turning to the porthole and studying everything in the room except my eyes. 

I lift the rose to inhale its scent, my eyes closing of their own accord in sheer pleasure at the fragrance, and for a time we stand silent with so very much between us unsaid. I finally break the silence by asking what he intends to do with the rose now. 

“I thought that I might give it to you, actually,” he tells me, walking back and facing me. “In a lot of ways, I think the same thing when I look at you…”

He says the last softly, gently, his voice a caress to my spirit. I gaze into his eyes breathless, speechless, wanting only to set down the rose and be in his arms, but at the same time held still, transfixed by the depth of emotion in his eyes and the echoing chorus of the same from my soul.

“I…” I start, swallow, and fidget, trying to find words, and failing… “don’t know what to say.”

“I guess it’s a bit silly, isn’t it?” He averts his gaze as he asks the question, a blush staining his ears. “I just thought,” he starts again after a moment, still not returning his gaze to mine until I reach out and gently lift his chin, “here I am doing all this complaining and you haven’t exactly been having a good time of it yourself.” I gaze into his eyes, willing him to see all the depth and complexity of feelings I bear for him. “You’ve had none of the good experiences of being a Grey Warden since your joining,” he says shyly but with conviction, “Not a word of thanks or congratulations. It’s all been death and fighting, and tragedy.” I slide my hand from his chin to his cheek, caressing, and he lays his hand over mine. “I thought,” he whispers, “maybe I could say something. Tell you what a rare and wonderful thing you are to find amidst all this… darkness.”  
“I feel the same way about you,” I whisper in turn, setting the rose gently upon the table as Alistair draws my hand from his cheek, holding it in both of his and stroking my fingers for a long moment. My heart swells in my chest, and I know a sense of warmth and connection I cannot recall having ever known before.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says nervously, looking up into my eyes with an impish grin. “Now… if we could move right on past this awkward, embarrassing stage and get right to the steamy bits, I’d appreciate it.”

Caught off-guard, I let out a bark of laughter before clapping a hand over my mouth so as not to wake Leliana. When I can contain myself, I look him straight in the eye with an impish grin of my own and a quirked eyebrow. “Sounds good,” I tell him, “off with the armor, then.”

It is his turn to laugh as he stands and steps away, blushing delightfully. “Bluff called!” he exclaims. “Damn, she saw right through me!”

“Why must it be a bluff?” I ask, letting a predatory gleam enter my eyes as I take a step toward him.

“Well, it doesn’t have to be a bluff,” he says with a look of wide-eyed wonder, though he also takes an unconscious step back, nervously fidgeting with his armor. “Maybe when we’re back at camp some night, you know, in a tent…” he finishes, looking pointedly at the sleeping Leliana.

“Promises, promises,” I sigh with a rueful smile.

“I’ll just be over here until the blushing stops,” Alistair says, still fidgeting nervously with his armor as he heads toward the cabin boy’s hammock.

I giggle softly as I slip the rose back into the scroll case.

“If I promise not to threaten your virtue again,” I ask, “will you let me help you take off all the metal so you might get some rest?” 

He looks up at me gratefully and agrees. It takes every bit of my training and long practice in focus and control not to react to the continuously building heat in my blood as I deftly unfasten buckles and help remove armor pieces into a conveniently open trunk bolted to the floor at the foot of the captain’s bunk. He nods in thanks, and I am certain from the smoldering of his eyes that he has had to fight for control every bit as much as I have. I climb into the captain’s bunk beside Leliana, forcing myself through a series of meditations to calm my raging desire. The fatigue of a night and day of battle catch up pretty quickly once my mind is focused somewhere other than Alistair. I drift into sleep without completing the series of meditations.


	13. Tower Seige

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes liberate the Circle of Magi from demons and abominations. Tethys learns something wholly unexpected.

Neophyte and apprentice mages are discouraged from dreaming with good reason. Confused, frightened, angry and captive within a landmark anchored and stationary on both sides of the veil, we would have been like sacrificial lambs for fade demons were it not for the wards and sentries. There was also something to be said for the rigors of the training, sheer exhaustion and certain herbal decoctions we were given with nightly prayers to make our connection to the fade as tenuous as possible in our sleeping state. Circumventing the wards and eluding the sentries to walk the fade had been a nightly ritual from the night I received the much delayed letter from my mother to the morning I left the Tower for the last time. I’d been astonished how easy it was to step from my own dreams that first night on the road to Ostagar. 

Tonight I don’t even require effort, nor do I have to navigate the broad sea of dreams. I find myself upon the island of the tower almost immediately upon falling asleep. The wards are in ruins, and the pitched battle I stepped past only a short time ago to visit Cullen all but lost. Few of the beneficent fade spirits remain here, and demons rush past the fortifications of the tower into its halls. I see some of these fall from higher levels of the tower, forcibly defenestrated by unseen defenders. What appears almost as a great rent in the sky transects the tower at the level of the harrowing chamber. Looking back over my shoulder, I see a similar irregularity in the fabric of the fade on one of the outer islands. I do not know how, but I am certain that far island is Redcliffe Castle, and the scar in the sky and through the Tower here is a hole in the veil. It can only mean that some of those demons are pouring forth into my world. I take some heart, realizing that the breach in Redcliffe is not a complete tear. I fully understand the request for the right of annulment now, and I turn to flee back to my own dreams. After all, I am but a fade shadow outside the realm of my own dreams, a pale observer with substance and power only inside a dream, and that subject to the whim of the dreamer. 

Before I can find and reach my own dream, however, I happen upon a fade spirit I recognize, Valour. He is besieged by three demons, and though I feel he may eventually win the fight, it is a close thing. Not really considering it, I rush to his aid, shaping my will into a shimmering bow and arrows which greatly resemble the ones Leliana uses. I stop, take aim, and loose once, twice, thrice. A single arrow strikes each demon facing Valour with a single arrow, doing no damage damage, but providing a necessary and momentary distraction.

Valour strides to me as he cuts down the last demon. “Well met, Valour,” I call to him, and he nods in greeting.

“I recognize you, young mage,” he tells me as he draws near. “You have learned much since last we met, though you lack the presence you did at that meeting.”

“I must thank you again,” I tell him, “your assistance and training undoubtedly saved me soon after our last meeting.”

“I was most pleased to so assist,” he replies with the deep formality that is his nature.

“Do you know what has happened here?” I ask of him, gesturing to the tower.

“I know only that the veil is torn, and many from each world are upon the wrong side” he explains somberly. “The demons, they revel in this. My own kind knows only deep concern, and none of your kind who walk here in body long survive the journey.”

“I am on my way to the tear from the other side,” I tell him. “I can only hope that enough of my kind still stand to effect a proper repair.”

“Two of my staunchest allies have gone through,” Valour tells me sadly. “If you encounter Justice or Compassion, please help them return if you are able.”

“If I am able, I will do as you ask,” I vow to Valour, before turning from the besieged Tower.

My own dreams are on the order of nightmarish. The great, draconic form of the Archdemon glares at me balefully from inside a tiny cage. He whispers malevolently, promising me pain, despair, death, and failure. Try as I might, I cannot deafen myself, nor blind myself to the bleak images he paints of my world destroyed. I also cannot seem to fully shield my soul from the crushing weight of his sadistic glee at my horror. I refuse, however, to be cowed, not in my own dreams. I weave the guilt and despair I took what seemed so long ago from Cullen, and I tie them in a loose net about the Archdemon’s cage to distract it. Then I spend an untold amount of time spinning my will and determination into fine, steely threads and I weave a solid cocoon outside the net, sealing off the malevolent presence as best I may. 

I am rewarded with at least brief moments of truly restful sleep before Alistair’s touch on my shoulder rouses me. “We have reached the docks at the Spoiled Princess,” he tells me. 

“Why did we not go straight to the tower?” I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer.

“The Templars will not let our vessel approach,” he says with some frustration, “but there is a ferry here that has been making the trip daily for the Knight-Commander to send and receive messages.

“Then we shall talk to the ferryman,” I say with determined conviction, “and he will take us to the Tower.”

Alistair nods, and helps me to my feet. I carefully pick up the scroll case containing my rose, intending to slip it into my battle harness. I lose myself for a moment, admiring the fine workmanship of several preservation runes inscribed along its surface. I bolster the runes with a little of my own power, determined to keep the gift as beautiful as the emotion with which it was given for as long as possible. I clutch the case to my breast as I rush from the Captain’s quarters to give my thanks and regards to the Captain, and request that he remain for one night and one day to swiftly see us back to Redcliffe with aid. He is happy enough to oblige, realizing that the gratitude of multiple mages can be weighty currency indeed. 

Alistair, Leliana, and I rush across the docks to the ferryboat. I am unsurprised to see Old Kester has been relieved of his boat by a young Templar. I recognize the man, but I cannot recall his name as we approach. He halts us without introduction and bids us turn around for the Tower is off limits. I glare and look as imperious as my youth and short stature will allow as I command that he take us immediately to see the Knight-Commander, for we are Grey Wardens on urgent business. He demands proof.

“Fool,” I snap in a fit of pique, finally recognizing the youth, “you were on duty the night I was conscripted, Carroll, and your company let a blood mage slip through your fingers. I return now to offer Greagoir assistance in his hour of greatest need, and you would turn me aside out of your own arrogance? Pick up your oars this instant to take my companions and I across, or Maker help you when Greagoir learns you have failed in your duties again!”

The young Templar pales, and gestures us into the boat. Alistair takes up a paddle as well, and the two of them row us across to the entry stairs in less than half the time the trip took when I left the tower not all that long ago. I wear a smug smile until we reach the island moorings.

At the outer receiving doors of the tower, a cold chill tingles across my very soul. The veil is so thin, I can almost feel the press of the fade wanting to pour into this world. As my magical discipline is the channeling of spirit, the thinness of the veil and the closeness of raw fade energies greatly reduces the concentration and effort I must put toward my weaves and enhances the results. Were I not confident in my control, I would fear myself even more than the demons right now.  
The Tower’s entry hall resembles the refugee camp at Lothering. Only, there are no frightened widows and orphans. Full Templar soldiers in varying states of health or injury sit, stand, or lay about the hall, speaking quietly with their fellows or praying. Knight-Commander Greagoir himself strides forth to meet me as I enter. He is not best pleased to see me, nor I him, but we at least manage civility. He makes no secret that the Right of Annulment has been sent for, and that he already considers my Circle of Mages lost. I must remind him that mages are not defenseless creatures, and some must still survive, even against such odds. I vow to enter, destroy every demon and abomination I encounter, and with the help of the surviving mages, seal the tear so no further demons can come through, provided he will rescind the Right of Annulment when I am done. He agrees, provided the First Enchanter himself declares the Tower cleansed.

Time being of the essence, I take only a few moments to trade some of my coin and the rations I carry for several potions of distilled lyrium from the Templar quartermaster. I smile, for I know each of us leave the trade feeling as though we have the better end of it.

There is a finality to the sound of the interior doors slamming shut behind us. I lead my companions through the apprentice quarters first, rifling chests and footlockers for more useful potions and protective charms. I have no qualms about doing so, for each of these apprentices can make more if they live, and they will only live if we are successful.

I steel myself for the worst as we pass the bodies of mages and older apprentices that I knew well tangled in heaps with the corpses of Templar soldiers. It is difficult to tell whether the Templars died defending or attacking the mages, but as I hear inhuman whispers emanating from the library ahead, I feel it matters not. Only the demons and their vessels still stand here to bear witness.

I motion to my companions to move quietly and quickly. Saying a brief prayer to the Maker, I rush into the library and scream out the incantations to throw my shield in place and draw fire. My distraction works, and Alistair cuts down the first abomination before it even realizes his presence. Leliana puts three arrows into another at very critical locations, and it falters and stumbles, pouring torrents of blood as it attempts to shamble toward her. I drop my shields and twist the very essence of a flaming demon of pure rage against itself, trapping it in my crushing prison before I turn to the slow-moving abomination and reach out with my will, siphoning the magical energy that allows its integration to fuel my own spells. Leliana stands her ground, firing twice more. The creature falls to the ground a hands-breadth from my companion’s feet, and moves no more.

Feeling the surge of incredible power, I push it out from myself into my companions, spreading their essence out and infusing it in their weapons. Keening edges, and strengthening bowstrings. I motion us onward, still feeling slightly giddy from the extra power. I am able to weave the next demon into a bomb, but must immediately throw shields over the shelves, for the burning demon of rage has no bones for shrapnel, he is merely an incendiary device with heat enough to overcome the wards on the tomes. Fortunately only one or two scrolls ignite before my shields snap into place, and Alistair and Leliana are able to stamp them out before the flames can spread. “I promise,” I say to them both before they can even think to say anything, “I will not use that spell on those demons again.”

Alistair grins at me, and Leliana nods as we move on to the next battle, and the next. In all we slay about twelve demons and abominations before running out of foes on the first level of the tower. We run a quick, but thorough search before opening the door to the twisting staircase up from the library to the center court of the mage quarters. I cannot entirely suppress the mingled excitement and grief as I recall the last time I visited these chambers in the Fade. So very very much has changed since the last I walked these steps. I cannot stop the sigh as Alistair shoves open the door at the top and we exit the central court through the only open door. 

The first small chamber on this floor is completely empty, and only charred patches of wall and puddles of gelatinous goo attest to the battles recently fought here. I follow the curving hall around to where I know the entrance to the Repository to be. If there is one place that would be safe from demons that would be it, provided any living Templar was willing to work with a mage to open it as refuge.

I cannot reach the repository, however. Upon reaching a doorway that opens to the chamber before the repository, I feel a shield of force more powerful than any I have ever created. I can see straight through to a group of mages busily working through a small opening in another such barrier to admit a mage supporting a wounded Templar, and to destroy the fiery demon giving chase. As the other barrier recloses, a stately mage in the robes of a Senior Enchanter turns to face me.   
“Wynn?” I say in awe, “You’re alive!”

“I recognize you,” she sighs, “you were at Ostagar.” I feel a waver in the magic, and the barrier dissipates before me. “Why are you here now?”

“The Templars have requested the right of Annulment,” I begin.

“Then Greagoir considers us already lost,” Wynn says sadly, shaking her head.

“Not if I can find the First Enchanter and have him declare otherwise,” I tell her.

We talk for a time, and she explains that Senior Enchanter Uldred was responsible for the tear in the veil, and that for nearly a week she had been sustaining the wards at both doors, protecting the children. She motions to the mostly-closed door of the Repository. Upon looking in, I see no less than fifty young apprentices and Templar initiates, all busily studying and completing basic chores under the watchful direction of Paetra and Kinnon, two of Wynn’s younger enchanters. There are also a few gravely wounded Templar soldiers doing what they can to keep order among the children. I would wonder why they lay bandaged and healing slowly, but I realize that so much effort has been going to sustain the barriers that none of the mages would spare the effort to lay hands on Templars unlikely to trust them anyway.

“We must move against Uldred and find the First enchanter quickly,” I tell Wynn after observing all she has done to safeguard life in the tower to this point. She immediately volunteers to go with me.

I am about to refuse, but I change my mind, remembering the strength of the barrier. I reach into my satchel, and hand her several of my flasks of distilled lyrium, thanking her for her assistance, and letting her know we have completely cleared the lower floor. Wynn nods, sending all the apprentices and young Enchanters in the chamber where we stand into the repository. She bids them seal the outer door there if any demons should come. They comply, though Paetra’s expression of deep concern when she looks upon Wynn gives me brief pause. 

I dismiss the look, however, as Wynn unravels the barrier and drinks down the contents of the first flask. None of us speak much for the next several hours as we systematically search out and destroy every last demonic presence. Alas, we are also forced to put down several mages who turn their magics upon us, and an entire phalanx of Templars under the thrall of a desire demon. I am terrified that each door we open will show me Cullen’s tortured corpse, and I feel a little relief each time we do not find him. I hold out hope that he was the messenger sent for the Right of Annulment, for that would mean he was spared all that I see.

Every so often, we happen upon a tranquil mage going about business as though unseen by the demons and abominations. I feel this should strike me as odd, but it does actually make complete sense. A tranquil mage has been severed from the fade and would be of no more importance to demon or abomination than the Tower’s stones or furniture. One of these tranquil mages, Owain, lets us know that he has given the Litany of Adralla to Enchanter Niall for use against the blood mages. Owain has little sense of time, however, so I know not when this was managed. I remember Niall, however, as a kind and soft-spoken man of middle years. I believe he was a disciple of the school of Spirit like myself, and put his very weak talents to use in document presentation. I hope to find him, for I fear he would have been little use against a powerful warmage like Uldred on his own.

Up and up the tower we climb, hour after grueling hour, battle after grueling battle. We stop for a quick bite from our remaining rations when my stomach protests loudly at the length of time since I last appeased it with offerings. Even Wynn chuckles about my appetite as I endeavor only to eat enough to silence my gut. “You mean she was not always like this?” Leliana asks of Wynn.

“I would have heard rumors if any of our apprentices ate so,” Wynn says speculatively, assessing me with a gaze, “but I never heard any.”

“It’s a Grey Warden thing,” Alistair interjects dismissively before popping an oatcake into his own mouth.

“Perhaps,” Wynn says with a sage nod before allowing the subject to drop and my blushing and discomfort to decrease.

All is going smoothly in our systematic eradication of the demons and abominations when we rush into what we are expecting to be a simple fight with a single abomination and are hit by a wave of uncontrollable weariness. I fight, thinking of my duty to the Wardens, to Ferelden against the Blight, but even my will is not enough. I recognize the demon, Sloth. I met him but evaded him at my harrowing, and I knew his awesome power then. I do not recognize the body he inhabits now, but I know it for a Senior Enchanter by the level of power Sloth turns upon my companions and I. The last thing I see before my eyes drift shut is Niall’s peacefully resting face.

I know the Fade for what it is as I pace the stone halls of a great fortress I have never before seen. Duncan greets me at the top of a dais and welcomes me to Weishaupt. I am disgusted by the complacency that Sloth offers me through this dream, and I slay the images of Duncan, Cousland, and Mahariel in order to free myself from the confines of the dreamscape. In figuring out how to leave, I touch a strangely shaped sculpture, and find myself transported to a small island of the outermost fade. Niall stands upon the island, and greets me sadly. The fight obviously gone from him. I try to enliven him, but am only able to encourage him in so far as he explains to me the obstacles that must be overcome, and minions of Sloth that must be faced to have any hope of escape. “I will get us out.” I vow, and stride further into the Fade.

I know not how much time passes in the world of the flesh as I hop from dream to dream and firmament to firmament within the Fade. One horror blends into the next as I learn from various dreamers to take on new forms. I would analyze the concept in greater detail had I the time, figuring this spirit form-shifting is the root of Morrigan’s particular discipline. I find myself looking forward to discussing it with her when I finally make it back out of the nightmares. Eventually, I find a bizarre sculpture that takes me not to another island, but to the misty world of an individual dream.

I step up to Alistair and greet him, his face wreathed in smiles. I have not seen him thus since before the battle at Ostagar, and not even then was he this joyful. His time in the Chantry and the burden of the Joining left a solemn edge to my companion that is in no way present in his dream-self. He plays with a half-dozen children who all bear a familial resemblance in the unruly fall of soft, dirty-blonde hair and the glitter of golden eyes. “I am so glad to see you,” he enthuses. “Please say you’ll stay for dinner, my sister, Goldana, is a great cook.” “This is my friend,” Alistair says to a gaunt woman of middle years with sparkling golden eyes the exact shade of his own. “You would adore her, Goldana.” 

“Of course she can stay,” this Goldana, says, and I can hear the sibilant undertone of demonic whispers in her reply. “Any friend of yours is a friend of ours.”

“Alistair,” I say urgently, “I cannot stay, and you must come with me.” He hesitates and Goldana orders him to set the table. I grasp his hand as he turns to comply, and plead with him to think very hard and remember how he came to be at Goldana’s today.

“I…” he starts, then really looks into my eyes, seeing my concern. “All right, fine,” he continues closing his eyes. In a moment, a look of complete bafflement crosses his face, and he opens eyes filled with worry bordering on fear.

“I cannot remember,” he whispers to me.

“What is the last thing you remember?” I probe gently.

“The tower… a demon… I got very sleepy.”

“You are in the Fade,” I tell him, and we need to wake.

He nods and follows as I attempt to take him to the strange sculpture I entered with.

The creature calling itself Goldana snarls in rage and transforms into the demon I knew her to be. It is a short fight, for Alistair is able to bring a sword of pure will into being without even realizing what he does. Before I can lead Alistair out the way I entered, he and the semi-focused bubble of the dream wink out of this place. I findmyself on a barrent piece of the Fade firmament with its only distinguishable feature the strange statue I used as a portal.

I touch the sculpture again, and find myself standing by Wynn as she prays over the fallen mages she had left to guard the children. I touch her, and ask her to come with me. Wynn, normally so calm and collected, becomes angered that I have no respect for these dead, and that I was nowhere to be found and allowed them to die. Feeling ever more pressing concern for the helpless bodies we are trapped outside of, I shake Wynn impatiently and ask her to remember how these fallen mages died. When she cannot, I tell her it is because they are not dead, we are in the Fade and all will be clearer away from here. She agrees wearily, and begins to follow.

As we walk back toward the strange sculpture that brought me here, the dead stand and condemn Wynn for leaving them. With this realization of the truth of my words, Wynn weaves the raw fade into brutal flame and burns down the demons that torment her. Like Alistair before, she fades away before I can lead her elsewhere.

I prepare to meet Leliana when I touch the sculpture again, and am not disappointed. I have zero tolerance for the Revered Mother who holds my friend in her dream. Alas, my friend does not even recognize me at first. I remind her of the vision she shared with me in Lothering, and sculpt the image of the perfect rose Alistair had given me only recently, handing it to her. Leliana looks at the rose, then at me and stands to follow. The Revered Mother quotes Chantry verse, reminding Leliana that the Maker has turned his back on the world and her dream was nothing more than a dream. To my immense relief, Leliana turns on the Revered Mother, stating “My Revered Mother understood my vision. I do not know who you are, but you are not her.” 

The Revered Mother’s shape falls away to reveal the demon beneath, and one more fight ends with one more companion fading from view. I trudge back to the sculpture and lay my hand upon it, wondering if this time I will finally wake. It is not so, but I do find myself surrounded by all of my companions as the demon, Sloth, strides upon the ground of the raw Fade. He wears the body of his abomination, and I know he has stepped fully back through the tear to his own realm. 

I am not here in my own flesh, and should feel only terror that I am in his realm without the fortifying power of lyrium and ritual magic, but I have been fighting and defeating demons here, and terror has not been a luxury I have time for. Sloth may be more powerful than his minions, but this time I also have strong allies. 

I do not wait for his dulcet lies and empty promises of beautiful and peaceful dreams. I weave the raw essence of the Fade into a crushing prison about him, shift myself into a great stone behemoth, and call to my companions to attack. I think of the frightened children, Chantry and Circle alike as I drive solid stone fists into the yielding flesh of the abomination’s body. Sloth takes on other shapes, and I match the feat, keeping his attacks focused squarely on me while my companions wear him down. With a mighty upper-cut from a flaming, bladed fist, I lay the weary demon open from groin to gullet. The mortal body collapses bonelessly, and the demon dissipates like so much released smoke. 

I resume my own shape as Niall approaches, wonder and admiration painted across his face. He reminds me that he took the Litany of Adralla with him from the stock room, and that it is the greatest defense against Blood Mage compulsion. He apologizes that he failed, and hopes his last act will at least aid us in our quest. “You may yet live,” I attempt to persuade him, “and Wynn is a great healer.” I finally convince him to at least try to find his own flesh again as my companions and I find ourselves.

I open my eyes and sit up stiffly. No heed was paid to lowering myself into a comfortable position when I collapsed, and it takes some time to regain the feeling in all of my fingers and toes. I recognize the corpses of other dreamers I had encountered in Sloth’s labrynth, but only Niall still draws breath. I prop him in a sitting position, and carefully pour water and an elixir of elfroot down his throat. Wynn joins me after seeing to our companions and assesses Niall for the wounds she can heal knitting them together as she goes. She pushes some of her own vitality into Niall, and we lay him gently on his side upon a soft carpet, hoping he will find his way back to his flesh after all. I retrieve the litany from his satchel, and as soon as all my companions are standing again, we set off upward through the tower.

As we reach the floor with the First Enchanter’s study, a particularly vicious abomination raises the corpses of fallen Templars and sends them in waves against us. I am reminded of the attacks at Redcliffe, but rather than being horrified, this time I am intrigued by the weave used. I study it even as I turn it on itself to make bombs of the Templars. The resulting explosions tear apart the abomination while I settle my own shields in place to deflect the shrapnel away from my companions. I realize that after my careful study, I could probably repeat the feat of reanimating a corpse, and I do so.  
Leliana and Alistair both cast dubious and disgusted looks in my direction, but I ignore them, willing the corpse to run headlong before us, throwing open doors. As a dozen demons and abominations attack it, I refit my own weave on the reanimated corpse into the contagious bomb, and the resulting explosions shake the very stones of the tower. “Whatever it takes to defeat the Blight,” I say somberly, and the looks of revulsion fade to grudging respect. 

We navigate the rest of the corridor without incident, but I pause at the First Enchanter’s study to search for any further weaponry or charms of protection that may aid us. I find little save ritual studies, and the library’s entire collection of works on blood magic. In one trunk I do find an ancient, black grimoire that reminds me of Flemeth for some reason. It is written in an indecipherable tongue and perhaps even an esoteric cypher as well, but I take it with intent to give it to Morrigan nonetheless. 

We climb the stairs toward the Harrowing chamber, mentally readying ourselves to encounter the raw fade made flesh. The staircase spirals to the antechamber, and we step in to see a single Templar kneeling in prayer behind a shimmering wall of force. He does not have his helm, and I would recognize those fine blonde curls anywhere. “Cullen!” I exclaim and rush to the shield, reaching out with my will, my senses, trying to understand the strange power holding my friend.

He looks up at me, his face weary and full of anger “This trick again?” he asks of no one in particular. “I know what you are,” he says to me. “It won’t work. I will stay strong…”

“Cullen,” I ask him softly, “do you not recognize me?”

“Only too well…” he tells me bitterly, taking his knee again to begin his prayers anew, “how far they must have delved into my thoughts…”

“The boy is exhausted,” Wynn tells me sadly, “and this cage… I’ve never seen anything like it.” She turns her warm, motherly gaze on Cullen. “Rest easy…” she speaks to him soothingly, “help is here.”

“Enough visions,” Cullen cries forlornly, “If anything in you is human…” He speaks disjointedly to my companions and I, “kill me now and sop this game. You broke the others, but I will stay strong, for my sake…” He mutters prayers between each short burst, while rocking back and forth as if trying to comfort himself, “for theirs… Sifting through my thoughts… tempting me with the one thing I always wanted but could never have… Using my shame against me… my ill-advised infatuation with her… a mage, of all things. I am so tired of these cruel jokes… these tricks… these.”

“This is no trick,” I say as soothingly as I can, though I can feel Leliana’s calculating gaze darting back and forth between Cullen and I. “We are here to help.”

“Silence…” Cullen yells, standing and attempting to stare me down. “I’ll not listen to anything you say. Now be gone!”

I step forward instead, laying my hand upon the shield, trying to compel calm with my eyes.

Cullen closes his eyes and opens them, looking at me with confusion and fear. “Still here? But that’s always worked before. I close my eyes, but you are still here when I open them.” 

“I am real, Cullen, not a figment of your Fade dream or mine this time.” I say in as soothing a voice as I can “I vowed to you that I would never ask you to break an oath for me. I can’t truly think you would believe I would suddenly ask you otherwise.”  
“I am beyond caring what you think,” Cullen snaps angrily. “The Maker knows my sin, and I pray that he will forgive me.”

Stung to tears that I refuse to allow Cullen to see, I turn away. “There is nothing wrong with liking someone.” I say, fighting to keep my back rigid, reaching down into my battle harness to retrieve the scroll case holding the rose from Alistair. I gaze up into his eyes and see warmth, and care tinged with possessiveness and a little jealousy. Suddenly all the pain of Cullen’s rejection is erased, and I beam lovingly at Alistair before turning around to face my angry former friend.

“It was the foolish fancy of a naïve boy,” he says in a voice steeped in pain and sorrow, “I know better now. Why have you returned to the Tower? How did you survive?”

“Is it so surprising that I have returned?” I ask softly. “This was once my home.”

“As it was mine,” he growls. “And look what they’ve done to it. They deserve to die. Uldred most of all. They caged us like animals… looked for ways to break us. I’m the only one left…”

Knowing there is no hope of reaching my friend in his current state, I ask that he tell me where the First Enchanter and any other survivors may be. Cullen declares them all lost, but states that Uldred is in the Harrowing Chamber, and as he does, I hear hideous screaming from above.

I turn and race up the last remaining steps to the harrowing chamber, my companions close upon my heels. “Maker turn his gaze on you,” Cullen shouts from behind me, “I hope your compassion has not doomed us all.”

As he said moments earlier, I am beyond caring what he thinks. My only goal now is to save the First Enchanter. I do not remember the name of the mage being restrained by two twisted abominations, but I recognize his surly face from my first meeting with Alistair at Ostagar. He does not see my face as the fight slips out of his. “Now you must simply let me in…” Senior Enchanter Uldred whispers with a maniacal grin. “Yes…” whispers the defeated mage. In moments, his screams return, only to end in a full throated cackle as his body distorts, twisting in to a grotesque caricature of itself, a demonic presence now housed within its eyes.

Uldred turns moments later to look me up and down. Again, I do not wait for his lies or coercions, I sound the charge, and Leliana opens fire even as Alistair draws his sword. The freshly minted Abominations attack first, and I call to Alistair to draw them close to Uldred, laying in the spell of the contagious bomb on Alistair’s target, folding the creatures raw demonic essence into my weave so that it can only be passed along that energy signature. I force my will into the weave, shaping the resulting explosion to spray back against Uldred, as his form shimmers and assumes a massive, twisted, fully demonic shape. I stand to the back after my casting, intoning the Litany of Adralla again and again to provide its protection for allies and wounded mages alike. As the last of the abominations explodes, pelting Uldred’s hideous shape with bone and gore, I pause in my litany to weave the crushing prison around Uldred, using the essence of the raw fade pouring through the palpable tear in the veil transecting this room. As soon as I snap the weave around the beast, I take up the litany once more.   
Fortunately, my skill with that particular weave has been greatly improving, and it takes less than a heartbeat, far too little time for the lone Uldred to bring his blood magic to bear on one of my allies or the injured mages. Wynn strikes out at Uldred with fire and earth, as well as weaving healing magic almost constantly to keep Alistair standing and laying into the beast with his sword. Leliana’s stride was off-balanced by the change in form, but she has recovered sufficiently, and a dozen arrows now sprout from locations critical to the creature’s movement. Again and again, Wynn falls back to drink down flasks of distilled lyrium. I dare not pause longer than the thought necessary to re-weave my prison when it falters. My voice is hoarse and my mouth dry by the time Uldred’s great mass crashes to the ground. Alistair strides over and decapitates Uldred’s hideously distorted body. Only then do I stop the litany and drink deeply from my waterskin.

Wynn races immediately to the First Enchanter’s side, assisting him to stand, and checking him for any wounds she may repair. She repeats this for each of the four remaining senior enchanters. I am pleased to see Justine among them. I rush to embrace my mentor. 

“First Enchanter,” I say after a moment, “Senior Enchanters, we must repair the veil. We must do it now before anything else slips through.”

Every mage assembled nods at me weakly, and I distribute my remaining flasks of lyrium. The First Enchanter leads the ritual, and I join my strength to the Senior Enchanters’, realizing as I do just how strong I have become since last I stood in this room.

I realize that the Senior Enchanters are not at their best, but of them all, only Wynn and Irving himself come close to matching my strength in this moment, and neither of those two exceed me. Every mage here, however, has infinitely superior control and focus. Even in this condition, each slips seamlessly into the First Enchanter’s weave, and guides the flow of his or her power precise and evenly as directed. I alone show the struggle inherent in that type of precision, but my determination is too great to allow me to falter.

In moments, it is done, and I feel the powerful, confusing energies of the raw Fade recede again behind the tenuous barrier of the veil. As one, all the mages sigh, myself included. “If you are ready,” I say to the First Enchanter, “The Knight Commander will open the barred doors only to you.”

“Yes, we should go, young Tethys,” Irving says with a welcoming smile, “but you must allow an old man to lean on you a while, and curse whatever fool thought it best to house the Circle in a tower.” We both chuckle softly as I lead the First Enchanter back down the stairs. The other Senior Enchanters are stable enough on their own feet, though Alistair solicitously stands by the steps in the antechamber and assists each down the stairs. With the close of the rent in the veil, Cullen’s cage has disappeared, and he appears to have given over to exhaustion as soon as the barrage on his mind let up. Alistair gathers the fallen Templar at my direction, waking and supporting him as we slowly make our way down the many floors of the tower. 

We leave the Senior Enchanters with the children and few remaining adult survivors, and escort Cullen and Irving to the great doors only recently bolted behind us. I pound on the doors and demand to speak with Knight-Commander Greagoir, allowing the First Enchanter to take over as soon as I hear the Knight Commander’s voice upon the other side.

It is a very simple thing to declare the Rite of Annulment void. Irving declares the Tower once more under our control. Cullen protests the power of Mages, and Greagoir reminds my erstwhile friend just which one of them is Knight-Commander. With the mages all owing my companions their lives, it is also a simple matter to obtain aid for Arl Eamon’s son as well as invoke the Grey Warden treaty. Wynn, being most impressed with our heroism and our cause, requests permission from the First Enchanter to join in me. Irving immediately grants it, and goes to gather the lyrium and mages necessary to complete the ritual in Redcliffe. I send Lelaiana and Alistair to check that our boat still lays at anchor by the Spoiled Princess, and bid them order an army’s worth of dinner for all of us at the inn before our journey back across the lake. I tell them that I will rejoin them with all the other mages, and they nod and hasten off to help appease my ever-demanding stomach.

I take the opportunity to corner Cullen. “Reciprocated or not, forbidden or not,” I say to him, silencing him with a gesture and a stern glare when he looks as though he might attempt to talk over me, “I loved you.”

His eyes go wide and he reaches for a bit of parchment tucked in his sleeve. It‘s my letter, I know, given on the same day we shared the only kiss either of us had ever shared with anyone to that time. “As I said to you in your dreams and upstairs, I would never ask you to break a vow for me. You know that for the truth, which is why you always saw through the demonic lies. It pains me that your affection for me was so used against you. It is the compassion that dwells in your heart that has always made you greater than your fellows. I hope only that one day you will allow yourself to know it once more. We will not meet again, Templar. My heart has been broken too many times to endure the rage and bitterness now overwhelming yours.”   
I turn and walk away, headed into the tower. I do not look back as I go to meet with my mentor and see if she will be joining the convoy to Redcliffe. I determine that I will never again look back toward Cullen. An “ill-advised infatuation” he had called me, when I had given him my love. Of course, I think more rationally, I had not truly known love to that time, had I? Had it not been all too easy to forget Cullen’s and even Cailan’s eyes as I stared into pools of liquid gold? Was it not Alistair’s dreams I sought in the Fade rather than Cullen’s? Was it not Alistair’s smile that kept my tears of rejection and humiliation from falling just hours before? Had I not felt my very soul reverberate with the truth of my declaration that I cared for Alistair just a day past? 

My mind runs through a half hundred more rhetorical questions as I search the tower for Senior Enchanter Justine, finding her at long last in her own chambers. “Domina,” I call tentatively at her door, using the Tevene title she always preferred from her novices. 

“Tethys, my darling!” She exclaims, and wraps me in a tearful embrace. We cling together and weep quietly for a time before she takes me by the shoulders and pushes me back to look upon me. “We have feared you dead ever since the devastation at Ostagar.”

“You were not far wrong,” I say softly, “I was nearly slain in the battle. I survive only by chance of an encounter with an ancient and crazed apostate who lives deep in the Korcari Wilds.”

“Thank the Maker for the Chantry’s short reach, then,” Justine blasphemes fondly, then looks at me more closely. “There is something different about you…” she mutters, halting me with a raised hand when I open my mouth to quip about the joining. She places a hand to my head and one to my heart in the classic positions of a healer’s assessment. Heartbeats later, she steps back with her eyes wide.

“You are with child,” she says to me softly. “It is not far along, and the taint in you is desperately fighting to loose itself from your control to claim it. 

“With child?” I ask breathlessly, my knees suddenly weak. 

“Yes,” she whispers, guiding me to a comfortable chair so I can sink down without falling. “A good, strong seed too, having survived the twenty-odd wounds you sustained just after conception, not to mention the Joining. It is a rare thing for a Warden to carry a child, and we must begin helping you fight the taint now if we wish the child to be born clean of it.”  
“Wynn has asked to join my expedition,” I tell my mentor softly, still shocked at her news. “Can she be trusted to assist me with this fight confidentially?”

“Confidentially?” Justine asks with a look of complete befuddlement. “Why would you wish to go into battle after battle without your companions knowing the precious package you carry?”

“Because I must go into battle after battle,” I say sadly, “Ferelden cannot afford that I stop fighting to bring this child safely to term, and there will be no future for my child if I try. Worse yet is the matter of the child’s father.”

“The child’s father?” Justine asks kindly, “I had assumed the father to be that gallant young man who looked at you so fondly after the two of you saved us.”

“Unfortunately, no,” I whisper in abject horror of the entire truth. “In fact, the father was my fellow Warden’s half-brother, and Alistair does not know.”

“But you have such obvious feeling for your fellow Warden?” My mentor asks in shock.

“It was before the battle of Ostagar,” I say hollowly, feeling drained. “Alistair was a Warden and I was still a recruit. We had just met, I hadn’t even had time to explore that instant first attraction. The …” I pause and swallow, not ready yet for the full weight of my confession, “child’s father found me pacing the camp in the utter darkness of the hours before dawn. He was so kind, so charming. Even if I had been in a position to, I would have denied him nothing.”

“A night of passion on the eve of battle,” Justine murmurs thoughtfully, “there’s power in that. Still, he’d have had to be of remarkably strong blood…”

My mentor stands in utter stillness before me, and I watch a thousand expressions wriggle across her features in rapid succession, not understanding any of them. Finally, she sinks into the soft chair across from my own and meets my gaze solidly.

“I only know of one line in all Ferelden that has potency enough to sire a child through Blight sickness or Grey Warden joining. Let me say this so I might believe I fully grasp it,” Justine says, her gaze on mine growing more wide and frightened with each word. “The child you carry is the late King Cailan’s bastard.” 

“Yes,” I say softly.

“Since you already mentioned the father is your fellow Warden’s half-brother, that means he is the late King Maric’s bastard son.” I nod.

“Teyrn Loghain declared your entire order traitors after the battle at Ostagar,” Justine completes the list of known factors with a note of dread in her voice.

“Teyrn Loghain is Queen Anoura’s father, and has declared himself Regent in her name,” Justine tells me the news I had only learned days before, and extrapolates, “So he turned on his King at Ostagar and destroyed your entire order to wipe out his daughter’s potential rivals for succession.” I nod.

Justine sits back in the chair, hard. “You do not do things by halves, girl,” she says sorrowfully.

“Not since I was six,” I say with a wry grin, remembering the last time my mentor and I talked in this room.

Justine lets out a guffaw of surprised laughter. “Well, that boy has at least been good for your sense of humor,” she tells me fondly, “but you and he have not…”

“He’s a virgin,” I tell my mentor, feeling the fond smile spread my lips.

“You best fix that, and soon,” she tells me, brooking no argument, “for then when the babe is announced, he can be the bastard of a bastard prince, and no direct threat for succession. It is the best safety you can give him.”

“Alistair deserves the truth,” I say softly, fearing the look of revulsion in his eyes when I tell him, “and well before we act on any passion that boils beneath the surface.”

“No,” my mentor states firmly, “you can take it to your grave and leave him a letter after.”

“That is so… mercenary,” I say with distaste, “and I love Alistair.” The words echo with truth all the way to my bones.

“Mothers have much in common with Grey Wardens,” Justine offers kindly, “whatever it takes for your child to grow up safe and well.”

I share a small smile with my mentor, and then ask as an afterthought, “Are you going with us to Redcliffe?”

“Oh, my, yes!” she exclaims, hopping up. “now help me pack, young lady, lest the boat leave without us.”

“The boat will not leave without me,” I rejoin with a self-important grin.

“’Tis a shame a mage cannot be Queen,” Justine retorts fondly, “you would make a good one.”

“Now to convince my prince that he wants to be king,” I sigh, then turn for one final confirmation from my mentor, “everything I have just told you goes to your grave, yes?”

“If any hear,” she tells me, summoning the power to make the promise binding, “it will not be from me.”

I touch my hands to her own, sealing the bond of the promise, then embrace my mentor. 

Justine pushes me back, chuckling throatily. She tosses robes and potions at me until we change the conversation to innocuous gossip about Justine’s head-strong youngest apprentice. I carry a stuffed valise for Justine as we join Irving and Wynn, waiting in a chill and gloomy fog for the ferry to return from delivering the first load of Senior Enchanters to the Spoiled Princess dockside. It is fortunately not a long wait, for my stomach begins to vociferously complain as the ferry comes back into view. Old Kester once again mans the oars, and I find myself grinning at this small return to the normal way of things.

As my party of stragglers arrives at the Spoiled Princess’ docks, we marvel at the almost festival-like atmosphere. Several tables have been carefully maneuvered from the inn to its green, and a bevy of serving wenches is bustling about, placing baskets of breads, wheels of cheese, and pots of butter upon each of the tables in the warm, afternoon light. The Senior Enchanters are wearily finding positions at the tables as the crew from the Rebel Queen loads their parcels onboard the ship. Justine presses a heavy, ornate purse into my hand and whispers, “Make sure the Inn supplies enough to feed the ship’s crew as well. It is simply good form.” I nod my thanks and hand Justine back her valise as I leap from the boat at the shore, rushing into the inn to increase the order for the now moderately-sized feast. 

The harried cook and innkeeper give me a surly look for my request, until I lay forth a small stack of gold sovereigns, then a second and a third, and request that we start with some of their better ale and wine for the whole of the house and the party outside. Suddenly all is bustles and smiles. I know I have overpaid for the feast, but I also know that it may be quite difficult for the inn to replace all we will have required of them in anything resembling a timely manner.

I steal a moment alone at the lakeshore, sneaking out from the rear doors of the Inn and through the trees to be out of sight of my assembled companions as the final preparations go into the evening meal. As the Rebel Queen was still at berth on the docks, I assume only one day passed in the Tower, and I hope that Jowan and Morrigan were able to keep Connor under wraps for that long. 

I am considering this as I disrobe and step into the lake, pulling a small cake of rose scented soap I pilfered from one of the Senior Enchanter’s quarters earlier from my satchel. The waters of Lake Calenhad are pleasantly cool, rather than their usual bone-chilling frigid. I quickly lather myself head to toe, taking special care to remove everything resembling abomination goo from my raven tresses. My stomach protests my girly habits, but I cannot pass up this opportunity for a moment of quiet in all this madness. I dive beneath the clear waters of the lake, and swim back to the rocky outcrop hiding me from the view of the tables. I pull the edge of my robe into the water, and whisper the incantation to clean it as well, then climb out on shore and stand naked in the gentle breezes for a moment, reveling in the sensation of being clean. I slip into my robe and incant it closed after a moment, picking up my battle harness and carrying it and my satchel back to the tables just in time for cauldrons of stew and spits of roasted venison to be brought out.

The crew of the Rebel Queen is actually sitting with the mages, all sharing toasts to Grey Wardens, Ferelden, fine ales, and beautiful women in turn. There is an air of gratitude to simply be alive that permeates the whole affair. Leliana stands as I approach, and walks to the center of the green, bidding all assembled to fill their plates and cups. My stomach punctuates her statement with a particularly loud rejoinder, and there are laughs and cheers all around. 

Attempting to hide my blush, I rush to take an open seat next to Alistair and he shoves a laden trencher in front of me. I smile in thanks and tear a hunk of bread to help soak up juices as I set to devouring the meal with ravenous intent.  
As the assembled crowd falls quiet in concentration on the meal, Leliana raises her voice, spinning a tale of valor and betrayal. So cunning is her delivery that I do not realize at first that she is retelling the events of Ostagar as she has learned them from the refugees and from late night talks with Alistair and myself. It is only as she describes the valiant effort of the fearsome Grey Warden who launched himself upon an Ogre so that his fellow might light the signal to charge that the memories of the battle come on me unbidden. I close my eyes and set down my food, feeling the crossbow bolts pierce through my shoulders as my heart races. Only Alistair’s arm, suddenly about my shoulders, keeps me from slumping under the table as I feel the hail of arrows descend on me that I was not awake for at the time. Leliana describes how Alistair selflessly threw his body over mine, holding me close as the arrows descended, as the darkspawn poured into the tower, and its ruins collapsed upon us all.

“Though the Grey Wardens sacrificed even their lives to signal the charge, the flanking armies turned away,” Leliana speaks sadly to a breathless crowd. “All of Ferelden’s Grey Wardens, save those under the stones of the tower fought and died at King Cailan’s side, holding the enemy for a flanking charge that never came.” A collective sigh of mourning erupts from the crowd as we all take up our glasses and toast to fallen heroes.

“Many of the mages here assembled,” Leliana continues as the toasts conclude and we resume eating, “fought hard against the tide of the darkspawn horde, themselves buying time for the camp followers to escape upon realizing their abandonment by the bulk of the armies.” Grumbled assent arises from several throats. “And as the moon set and darkness and silence fell across the fields of the fallen at Ostagar,” Leliana’s voice continues conspiratorially, as if whispering a secret to the crowd though her voice be pitched to carry, “a great bird winged across the sky and alighted upon the broken Tower of Ishal.”  
Gasps greet the announcement, and I feel myself grinning as I rest my head wearily on Alistair’s shoulder. “Commanded by powers unknown in opposition to the Blight, the great bird clawed through the tower’s debris until she found the fallen Wardens, still clinging tenaciously to their last breaths of life.” More cheers, some of excitement and others of disbelief greet the plot twist.

“She bore them back to a secret outpost deep in the wild, where her mistress and a small band of Chasind barbarians nursed the Wardens back to health.” Ii smile as Leliana takes artistic license with what really happened, denying Flemeth the credit for who would ever believe the truth. “When the last two Wardens could again lift their weapons in defense of Ferelden, they came to Lothering, following a beautiful wildling guide, and that is where I joined them,” Leliana lifts her glass to Alistair and me,” for they are much too humble to tell of their own daring.”

I blush profusely and hide behind a boule of bread, much to the amusement of my dinner companions. Leliana, however, continues on unabashed. “The crew of the Rebel Queen will well remember the Warden’s selfless defense of Redcliffe.” Grateful nods, murmurs and toasts follow for a time. “And for aid in the hour of direst need,” Leliana nods to the First Enchanter, “all they asked of the Circle was assistance in removing the possibility of further threat at Redcliffe.” The crew of the Rebel Queen nod respectfully at the mages, who in-turn lift their glasses to Alistair and I. “The threat of the Blight still looms to the south,” Leliana continues when the toasts pause, “And we are all fortunate to yet have Wardens among us to face its threat.” All assembled raise their glasses in agreement.

“Alas,” Leliana says in a voice choked with unshed tears, “The very general who turned his back upon the Grey Wardens’ signal, the very general who abandoned our King to his death, has declared the order of the Grey traitors. Has made outlaws of the fine and selfless heroes to whom we all owe our very lives.” Angry grumbles echo through our assembled group, and the serving wenches look on Alistair and myself with wide eyes. “And yet the Wardens do not run, do not hide as a traitor might. No. They walk open and unafraid as Andraste herself in the light of truth. They seek to undo the wrongs of a desperate man. They seek to bring our peoples together to face a common foe. They seek to end the Blight and restore Ferelden’s throne once again to its true heirs, the blood of Calenhad. We must all stand behind them.” 

Leliana raises her own glass at the last word, and all our assembled companions rise, even the serving wenches and the guests of the inn filing out onto the green and finding flagons to lift in toast to “Ferelden and the Grey Wardens.”

I give Leliana a side-long glance as she sits down next to me and tucks into a trencher of stew. “I hope you did not just convince our fine captain to change course and deliver us to Denerim for the reward upon our heads.” I whisper to her softly. In reply, she pushes a rough sketch of myself and Alistair with a promise of significant bounty in my direction. I read the notice and swallow loudly.

“I found several more of these posted along the Kings Road nearby,” Leliana tells me softly between hurried bites of stew, “and I took the liberty of having the Circle Mages check every dish for poison as it came out of the inn.” I nod in appreciative wonder. “The story was every bit as much for the inn staff and guests as it was for our companions out here. After all, if two Wardens can defeat a horde of darkspawn, save a village from inhuman monstrosities, and liberate a circle of mages from abominations, how will mere bounty hunters fare against them?”

“Well put,” I say thoughtfully, raising my glass to her in private toast. “And what of all that about restoring Ferelden’s throne to Calenhad’s true heirs?” 

“In my time as a minstrel I entertained at many courts,” Leliana tells me very softly, “I had opportunity to see both King Cailan and King Maric. Mark my words, Theirin blood flows in sweet Alistair’s veins. If Alistair himself has not already told you, surely Arl Eamon will do so when he wakes.” 

“Alistair is a Grey Warden,” I whisper softly, knowing even as I say it that the duty which cannot be foresworn can take many shapes.

“And his Grandmother was most likely the Rebel Queen,” Leliana counters, which do you think will concern the people more?  
I shake my head sadly. “Can we not have one war at a time?”

“Oh, we shall undoubtedly have more before we are finished,” Leliana tells me with a great smile and a raised glass.  
As the evening gloom begins to settle over the sky, the captain of the Rebel Queen calls his crew and passengers to load with all due haste and disappears inside the inn himself for some last minute trade negotiations of a less-than-legal nature no doubt. That, however, is not of my concern, and I turn away to join my mentor and Alistair on the deck of the ship. Justine is peppering Alistair with a million questions as only a doting old mother-surrogate can do of a would-be suitor for her charge’s affections.

“Justine,” I say kindly, “we will all have a long night’s work ahead. Perhaps you can leave my companion with a few of his secrets so that we might all gather some rest while we are able?”

“Such an upstanding and well-mannered young man cannot possibly have secrets,” Justine says with a pat on Alistiar’s cheek before calling to a deck hand to show her to a bunk.

“Now,” I tell Alistair shyly, “I believe you have met every single person who was ever important to me before I met you.”  
Instead of any witty retort, Alistair clears his throat and hesitantly asks if we may look someone up in Denerim, should our paths take us there. I cock my head to the side, wondering if this has aught to do with his dream. “You have a friend outside the Wardens?” I ask gently.

With some hesitance, a lot of blushing, and more fidgeting than I would credit a man of 20 years capable, Alistair does finally confess that he has a rumored half-sister who lives near the Alienage in Denerim. He has never met her, he tells me, and has only recently learned of her existence. Thinking of how much joy I would feel at finally meeting my own blood, I readily agree that we will look up his lost sister should we have the opportunity.

The Captain again gives his chambers to my party. Alistair gallantly offers to use a crew berth, thus allowing Wynn, Leliana, and myself to share the private quarters. I make certain of leaving a note of thanks and a tidy sum from Justine’s purse behind upon his table when we depart his vessel at the Redcliffe docks.


	14. Secrets and Half-truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor is saved, but bound to the Circle. Our intrepid adventurers learn more about one another, but all manner of very important things are left unsaid.

Chill, midnight mists gather about us as I lead a small band of mages up the path to the keep. We are all tired, despite a half-night of rest aboard the Rebel Queen, but none of us wish to wait through the rest of this night under threat of the demon who possesses the Arl’s son. It was a great enough chance taken to bring the mages now.

Ser Perth greets us at the gates of Redcliffe castle and bustles us in to Bann Teagan. Arlessa Isolde has returned to her husband’s side and will not leave it, I am informed. I find this fitting. I leave the mages to prepare the rights of the Harrowing, for what we shall be doing in moments is nothing less. Meanwhile, I pace the halls, checking on the survivors of the castle to see if there is aid I can give. In my wandering, I pass the wide open doors to the Arl’s study, and remember the beautifully restored amulet I found inside what seems like an age ago.

I smile as reach into my satchel and grasp the amulet, knowing this to be the best way to show my prince just how much he has come to mean to me. I whisper my thanks to the Arl, and a brief prayer to the Maker that Eamon be well.

I return to the Circle Mages just as Jowan and Morrigan escort Conner into the improvised Harrowing Chamber. First Enchanter Irving sends out Bann Teagan and his Knights, allowing only the mages and Alistair to remain. The First Enchanter does not betray his surprise at seeing Jowan, but does glare at my friend before he explaining that one mage will be sent into the Fade to face down the demon attempting possession of Connor on its own ground.

“Jowan will go,” I say without hesitation, “he wishes to atone for the ill he has caused this family and this realm. To face death, possession, or becoming lost in the Fade on behalf of the child is the greatest service he can give.”

“You trust too much,” Irving says with a dark scowl.

“No,” I tell the First Enchanter, “I understand much and trust where it is deserved.”

“I will not disappoint you again,” Jowan tells me with a determined nod, “I will make this right.”

“I believe in you,” as I should have before, I tell him solemnly, gripping his shoulder and meeting his eyes openly and honestly. 

Morrigan rolls her eyes at me and scowl back at her, motioning her to go back upstairs and away from the Templars who have come to Redcliffe Castle following the mages.

I join hands with the other mages, ceding control of my power along with half of the Circle Mages to Senior Enchanter Justine. First Enchanter Irving holds the amassed power of the other half. It’s a heady thing to be part of such a massive ritual. I can barely follow the precise and intricate patterns Irving and Justine weave with exquisite control. Justine is opening and stabilizing a gate through the veil and into the raw Fade. Irving uses his circle to build a pathway through that gate and link it with Jowan and Connor’s essence. 

This last is accomplished by piercing one finger of the unconscious child and adding drops of blood to a brazier of burning lyrium. Jowan pricks his own finger as directed, adding drops of his own blood before bending forward and inhaling the vapors of burning Lyrium. As his body collapses to the floor of the great hall, I have a vague memory of Irving uncapping my phylactery and pouring it on a similar brazier in the harrowing chamber. Jowan’s essence separates from his flesh strides along Irving’s path through our gate into the Fade.

Jowan is gone for what feels like ages, being open and vulnerable in my submission to the ritual circle time. It is only a short time, in the physical sense, though and we hear Jowan’s voice now and then. First we hear muffled apologies to Arl Eamon, and I wonder if we should have not brought the Arl into this circle as well to find his way back to himself. I barely have the time to string together the idea, independent though being difficult in a submissive position within a ritual circle, when attempted words of comfort to Connor echo from the gate. It is mere breaths before I hear a shouted argument with an inhuman voice. Sounds of battle echo through the chamber. An unearthly scream follows, and then complete silence for the space of several breaths.

Jowan’s glittering figure walks diffidently out through our gateway, leading a faintly glowing figure of Connor behind. Each follows Irving’s path to his own flesh. Jowan’s figure watches Connors, mouth moving and punctuated by occasional gesticulations. I string together the understanding slowly that Jowan is explaining to Connor how to regain himself. The shimmering child lays down within the identical but opaque figure on the ground, and a moment later, Jowan does the same.  
Two sets of eyes begin to flutter within heartbeats, and Irving nods to Justine. They use the combined power of the circles to close our gate and mend the instability in the veil within the castle. Before releasing control of our powers to the individual mages, Irving and Justine bring forth small vials and sharp lancets. Justine opens Connor’s wrist and Irving Jowan’s. They fill the small vials with blood taken from the not-quite-conscious mages, then heal the wounds and weave a rapid binding on each vial. 

“Phylacteries,” the realization dawns on me with growing swiftness as Justine releases me from the ritual, my power and my thoughts coming once more under my control. “You made phylacteries for them.” 

Justine nods tiredly “It’s best we not delay, considering…”

While the other mages congratulate one another, I approach Jowan and lay a hand upon his shoulder, rousing him. “Well done,” I tell him. “Congratulations on your Harrowing, long as it has been in coming.” 

“Thank you for your faith in me,” he says groggily, “I wish I had deserved it sooner.”

“You may not be thanking me long,” I tell him gently. “I will try to save your life, if I can, but by sending you to save Connor I have removed the mercy of the Rite of Tranquility.”

“Tranquility is no mercy,” He replies with absolute conviction, “even in the knowledge of the pain I have brought to everyone, especially Lilly.” Tears well at the corners of his eyes and trickle to the stones below. He does not try to rise.

“The alternative I will soon offer may be many times worse,” I tell him sadly, “but it would leave you alive and able still to make amends, and perhaps be ready for and worthy to love again.”

“Whatever it is,” he tells me, lifting his hand to grasp mine tightly and staring me straight in the eye “I will take it.” 

I turn to the gathered mages. “I hereby invoke the Right of Conscription,” I say solemnly from there on my knees. “Until such time as we may enact the Joining, this mage is a Warden Conscript and subject to the swift Justice of my Order.” 

I exchange one more look with my oldest friend, seeing his determined nod, then rise and release his hand. “He is under my edict to research an antidote to the poison he was hired to administer to the Arl of Redcliffe,” I continue, pacing across the hall to stand before First Enchanter Irving, “and in all ways to maintain the Arl’s health and life until such time as he is cured. “At the time of his Joining, this mage may be absolved for all prior crimes.”

The First Enchanter sighs audibly, but meets my steely gaze. 

“Until his joining,” I say with unwavering conviction, “Jowan is remanded to my custody, and subject to the swift, sure justice of my order for all of his actions, past and present at my discretion.”

Irving studies the fierce set of my jaw, and I feel him probe at my essence, his eyes widening as understanding dawns at just how much both my my power and control have increased in the short time I have been away from the Tower. After a moment, he nods and simply says “So shall it be,” then hands me Jowan’s new Phylactery.

I nod to all assembled as they gather up the barely conscious Connor. I take my leave to seek out Bann Teagan, gathering Jowan as I exit. Alistiar follows closely on my heels. We find Bann Teagan at his brother’s bedside. The Arl draws breath slowly and evenly, but he appears wizened and old beyond his years. I see tears glitter in Alistair’s eyes, and I enclose his hand in mine comfortingly. “Jowan has defeated the demon that possessed Connor,” I tell the Bann and Arlessa quietly. “I have charged him to further research an antidote for what he has done, but I fear that will not be enough now that I see the Arl.”

Jowan makes as though to apologize again and I silence him with a gesture and a hard look. “You will do right by the Arl and his family,” I tell him softly, “but you must go to your quarters and rest now because long, hard days of atonement start with the dawn.” 

Bann Teagan and Arlessa Isolde face Jowan warily, and I step between all of them, making soothing, calming gestures with my hands. “Arl Eamon’s best chance to at least remain stable is to be in the care of a skilled alchemist. Jowan wasn’t the master poisoner that made the concoction he gave to the Arl, but no doubt he retains some of the residue in a secret place to begin work on an antidote.” 

I look to Jowan, Teagan, and Isolde in turn. Jowan nods, and I see Teagan relent to logic. “Take Morrigan and go find it,” I tell Jowan. Let her see if she’s got anything in our stores to help you get started.

Isolde is insisting emphatically that the only cure is to recover the Urn of Sacred Ashes, as Jowan exits the room. I give the shrewish Orlesian woman my full attention as she adamantly states her knights had been working with a Brother Genetivi in Denerim, and were close to answers. 

“Recall your Knights and rebuild your armies,” I implore Isolde. “My travels to enlist aid against the Blight will take Alistair and myself anywhere they might have searched, and we can more easily whittle off all false leads if all the knights are together here to compare tales and findings.”

Teagan sees the power and logic of my argument immediately, and adds his effort to mine in convincing Isolde. She finally bows to my judgement, and Alistair looks at me with an expression close to awe. 

“Come,” I tell him, “we have companions to find and a second quest to start.” He flashes a boyish grin at Bann Teagan, who returns it with a regretful and somewhat jealous smile of his own.

Alistair is thoughtful and quiet as we chase down Wynn, and Leliana who have been very wisely spending the evening enlisting the kitchen staff to raid the larder for travel they knew would be eminent. Alistair and I promise to return with the horse, cart, and Sten shortly, and rush down to the village below.

Alistair remembers that we did rescue the Blacksmith’s daughter as promised as we pass the mill, so we stop by the smithy first upon reaching the village. A very sober Owain opens the smithy door at our knock, and he embraces Alistair tearfully, thanking him a thousand times over for sending Velena home safe. I smile at Velena, who sits in a corner, rolling her eyes affectionately at her father. “This whole village should be safe for a while,” I tell them both somberly. “However,” I say with sadness and conviction, “the blight is coming, and we would have you continue to work with the militia to improve their arms and armaments.”

Owain gives me his promise, along with a suit of fine armor of dwarven make, sized just perfectly for Leliana. “To keep that pretty red-head in one piece” he tells me, “until I can thank her myself.”

Alistair and I say mirthful farewells and exit the smithy to search for Sten. It is a fast search, as we find him down on the docks drinking a pint of local Ale and eating what appears to be a small parcel of cookies that he hides quickly at the sounds of our approach. “The danger is passed here for the moment,” I say as we approach, “And as you are not in a cage, I assume you have only been assisting in rebuilding efforts.”

Sten rumbles good-naturedly, and stands. “We are finished here, then?” He asks, turning to face me. 

“For now,” I say firmly, “but we will be returning here for the Arl’s armies when they have been rebuilt.”  
Sten nods thoughtfully.

“Where is the horse and our cart?” I ask after a moment, gazing about. 

He turns down an alleyway, motioning us to follow. We do, and soon find our cart, festooned with ribbons and flowers, and heaped high with fresh produce, barrels of fish, casks of ale, bottles of wine, and even a small, ornate chest of glittering trinkets. Gifts of thanks from a grateful village. My heart swells. The horse is hobbled on the green nearby, contentedly grazing. Alistair and I lead the horse to the cart and harness him, walking hand-in-hand beside Sten as he drives the cart back up to the castle.

As Wynn, Leliana, and Sten carefully monitor the loading of further supplies onto the cart at the castle, Alistair pulls me aside to talk about what has just happened in Redcliffe. He thanks me for doing all that I could to save the Arl’s family, knowing full well that I did so because of what they mean to him. “If we can stop the blight,” I tell him softly, “we can save so much more.”

“You’re right,” he tells me, holding my hand gently, “but thank you none the less.”

“Oh!” I exclaim, remembering the amulet in my satchel once more. I reach in with one hand and retrieve it. Turning Alistair’s hand palm-up with the other hand, I place the amulet upon his palm and let go his hands for a moment.

“This is my mother’s amulet,” he sighs in wonder, stroking the now-smooth surface. “Where did you find it?”

“It was in the Arl’s study,” I tell him, explaining my impression that the Arl had it repaired and had intended to return it to him.

“You remembered me telling you about it?” He asks softly, his golden eyes staring deeply into mine.

“Of course I did,” I tell him softly, wrapping my hands over his and looking up at him shyly “you are special to me.”

“Wow,” he says shakily, “I’m used to people ignoring me when I go on about things.”

I will never know what I might have said next, for our moment is interrupted by a surly shout from Morrigan, “You were not planning on leaving me behind to school that Circle idiot in the mixing of herbs?”

“Not at all,” I tell her, giving Alistair’s hands a squeeze before stepping around him to defuse Morrigan’s temper. “I was merely saving you the effort of loading the wagon.”

She crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow suspiciously at me, then glances down at the nearly packed wagon, “How thoughtful…” she says and joins us as we put the last few parcels in place.

I turn back to Alistiar just as he slips the amulet over his head, tucking it beneath his arming tunic. We share a soft smile. He walks close to me as we join our companions and all march out of the castle gates under the light of a setting sun.

We turn along the King’s Road toward Denerim, and walk back to the same camp we used what seems a lifetime ago, but has been only days. We find it occupied when we arrive, and smile warm greetings at Bodhan Freddick and his boy Sandal. They gratefully welcome our company, and ask if they might take up my kind previous offer to travel with us, adding that they have had to hide in the bushes to avoid several groups of bandits in the last several days. I readily agree, warning them, however, that our current path takes us toward Denerim, with a stop in the Brecilian Forest on the way. Bodhan jumps at the chance to trade with the Dalish Elves, and all is arranged. Morrigan and Sten are given first watch. In order to be less conspicuous in my affections, I assign last watch to Alistair and Wynn, taking the middle watch with Leliana.

Of course, taking the watch with my much-too-astute Orlesian companion means that I spend the latest hours of the night conspiring to place my beloved Alistair on the throne. I also spend the time surreptitiously attempting to learn more about my enchanting new friend. I’m not entirely successful in revealing all of her secrets before the setting of the moon prompts us to wake Alistair and Wynn and take some more rest ourselves, but the remaining secrets just prompt me to work harder.  
Days and nights pass without Alistair and I having more than a heartbeat or two alone with one another. I take watches with Sten and Leliana, pairing Alistair with Wynn and, very reluctantly, with Morrigan. I drive the wagon with Wynn and Morrigan during the days, taking the opportunity to get to know the strengths and weaknesses of all of my companions as best I might. 

Finally, when I cannot stand one more evening without his company, I assign Alistair and myself to the final watch. My dreams are restless and full of dragons. I wake far before the correct hour and lay awake for a time listening to Leliana and Wynn discuss the politics of the succession of kings. Leliana does not mention Alistair’s birthright specifically, but she does pick Wynn’s brain for useful historical knowledge on the subject of bastard princes. “Are you saying that Cailan fathered an illegitimate son?” Wynn asks in shock. 

“I have no idea,” Leliana replies conspiratorially “but I am certain that Maric did.”

“If Maric did have a second son,” Wynn says thoughtfully, “His claim to the throne would be stronger than Cailan’s seemingly barren widow or her treasonous father. It would be stronger as well than Queen Rowan’s brothers. There are indeed few in Ferelden who would fail to fall in behind a son of Maric the Savior, especially if he showed any of the valor and cunning of his father.”

“If Cailan also had a bastard child,” I interject, climbing out of the tent which was one of the gifts piled on our wagon at Redcliffe, “which would have the stronger claim?” Two sets of surprised but contemplative eyes turn to me as I emerge into the firelight. 

“Rowan was a beloved queen, and a hero in her own right,” Wynn begins thoughtfully, “and the House of Guerrin would have to fall behind a child of their own blood.”

“However, the stain of infidelity would paint Cailan’s bastard child, while a younger son of Maric’s would be an act of solace following Rowan’s death,” Leliana adds pensively.

“And in any case,” Wynn concludes, “a bastard son of Cailan’s would be far too young to rule in his own right just now, and leave the door open for Loghain to maintain his claim as regent for the boy. If we wish to politically oppose Loghain and unite our realm, let us pray to the Maker that Maric’s grown son would be willing and that Cailan had no bastards.”

“Even if Maric’s son is a Grey Warden?” The question leaves my lips before I can stop myself.

Wynn’s steely gaze bores through me, and then turns to Alistair’s tent. “Why did I not see it before?” she asks with a gasp. 

“I knew it!” Leliana crows in the same moment, “This is what he confessed to you before Redcliffe is it not?”

I cast my gaze to my toes and nod sadly. “Alistair has never had ambition or aspiration to the crown,” I say in the hushed stillness of their mad bout of calculating glances. “However, his assent to the throne is the best way to unite us now, and the only way to assure a future for Ferelden’s children.” I do not realize I have voiced my musings, or that I have been unconsciously caressing my belly until Wynn strides to me and places hands to my head and heart, examining me even as I protest.

“You did say you had a lover that died with the King’s army at Ostagar,” Leliana whispers, her eyes round with wonder.   
“And so he did,” I say as I submit myself to Wynn’s inspection, “But I just learned that he left a legacy for me to remember him by.”

“But Alistair…” Leliana whispers, cocking her head in confusion.

“Was my guide and assigned as my mentor by the Warden Commander. The immediate attraction I had for him was inappropriate, and had he any for me, he could not have acted on it before my Joining. My lover on the other hand had watched over me for twelve years, since the day I gave up my own future to preserve his.” 

I fidget in the silence, finally clearing my throat and continuing. “He told me in the short time we were together that he had come to the Circle in disguise to spend time with me, get to know me. During that time, I can only assume his sense of obligation became affection.” I feel tears prickle at the backs of my eyes and I extricate myself from Wynn’s grasp, turning away to face the darkness. I breathe deeply a few times, regaining my composure.

Leliana circles the fire and wraps comforting arms about me while Wynn assesses me critically in silence. After a few moments, I sigh heavily, thank Leliana for comforting me, and step away. “Wynn,” I say softly, drawing her out of her thoughts, “my mentor Justine implied that you would know spells and treatments to help keep my child safe from the darkspawn taint I carry?”

Wynn nods sadly. “The same Justine and I prepared to safeguard Queen Rowan’s babe so many years ago, as she died slowly of the Blight sickness” she muses softly before looking me in the eyes, hard. “The process may hasten or delay the child’s birth, which may be both blessing and curse either way.” 

“Wardens and Mothers have much in common,” I tell her with steel in my voice, “I will endure anything for the safety of my child and this realm. Even though it kill me. Even though it break my heart.”

Wynn nods in appreciation of my words, and opens her mouth as though she is about to say more.

“Now the both of you should go find your beds and halt your conspiracies,” I tell them. “We have hard truths to carry, and the both of you are sworn to secrecy on all counts.”

Reluctantly, they leave the fireside and find their tents. Only after they are both behind canvas walls do I approach Alistair’s tent and reach out with my power to gently stir him awake.

I feel wakefulness steal over Alistair, but he does not emerge from the tent. “You know if you don’t come out,” I call playfully, “I will perish of loneliness.”

“We can’t have that,” he calls out, throwing open the tent flaps and casting aside the furs that cover him. His chest glistens in the firelight, and I see the tracings of dozens of tiny scars. My fingers ache to reach out and sooth away the memories of pain that must accompany what are obviously the wounds of battles and training accidents. It is a hard road my companion has travelled, and I find I cannot bring myself to make it harder tonight. My heart races, and I feel a tingling spread throughout my body as I devour the gorgeous man before me with my eyes.

“No… we can’t,” I say breathlessly as I feel a blush creep up my cheeks. I dart away to the fireside accompanied by his triumphant chuckle.

After a few moments and some muffled expletives that accompany Alistair donning his boots, he joins me at the fireside. I turn to him to make sure he is dressed as he flops to the ground at my side. “So, all this time we've spent together...” He loses the flow of the words and fidgets with his hands as I lean my head companionably on his shoulder, “the tragedy, the brushes with death, the constant battles with the whole Blight looming over us...” He pauses again, for a long moment and eventually I raise my eyes to meet his, “will you miss it once it's over?”

“I can take or leave the battles,” I tell him honestly, “but I would put myself at the fore of the fray until my last breath if it kept you by my side.”

“I…” he starts and trails off, looking into my eyes, his own round with wonder, “you didn’t answer my question…”  
“Didn’t I?” I counter with a sly grin.

Alistair smirks and wraps an arm about my shoulders so I can curl in closer to his warmth in the cold night air. We joke about our gory battle history, then somberly discuss what it might be like to have a home somewhere and not have to sleep on the cold, hard ground. We lapse into a comfortable silence after a moment, and as lean forward and warm my hands nearer the fire, he touches my elbow. I immediately shift to my whole body to face him.

“I know it…” he begins shyly, “might sound strange, considering we haven’t known each other very long, but I’ve come to care for you. A great deal.”

I cock my head to the side, looking at him through my lashes and trying to keep my heart inside my ribcage while it flutters as though trying to escape.

“I think maybe it’s because we’ve gone through so much together, I don’t know,” he continues, taking my hands while looking away into the fire. 

I sit quietly, nervously clinging to his hands.

“Or maybe I’m imagining it,” he goes on, looking me in the eyes now. “Maybe I’m fooling myself.” He drops one of my hands, reaching up and brushing his knuckles softly along my cheekbone. “Am I?” he asks softly, “Fooling myself?” My eyes drift closed of their own accord and I arch my neck, inviting his caress.

“Or do you think you might ever…” he swallows, and I open my eyes, gazing intently into his. “Feel the same way about me?” He asks the last as a whisper, almost too nervous to even voice the question.

I reach out and trace the plane of his cheekbone and jaw with my own fingertips, whispering “I think I already do…”

“So I fooled you did I?” He asks with a chuckle, even as he slides his hand to the back of my head and leans in to press his lips against mine.

My senses reel, and I find that my hands have moved of their own accord to tangle in Alistair’s soft hair. My lips part breathlessly, and his tongue tentatively quests in, seeking my own. I meet it and our tongues dance. His hand tightens in my hair, and I moan into the kiss as Alistiar’s other arm snakes about my waist, sliding my body effortlessly onto his lap. My body pressed closely to his, I yield completely to the kiss. I plead silently to be claimed by the fires of Alistiar’s passion, but he holds back, taking only the kiss, giving only so much of himself.

After some moments, he breaks the kiss, leaning back and looking at me in wonder and trepidation. “That… wasn’t too soon, was it?” He asks the question softly, nervously.

“I am unsure,” I purr at him gently, “I will need more testing to find out.”

“Well that can be arranged,” he chuckles even as I pull his face back to mine and kiss him again, my eyes fluttering closed once more.

Alistair eventually breaks the kiss again to my moaned protest. Every last nerve in my body is awake and attuned to the softest brush of Alistair’s fingers and lips against it. I want nothing more than to be naked in his arms and to feel him claim me and erase the memory of any other touch. 

The realization sobers me, and I open my eyes to stare deeply into the golden pools of his own.

“Maker’s Breath,” he whispers, “but you’re beautiful. I am a lucky, lucky man.”

He lifts me off of his lap and sets me gently upon the ground near the fire, obviously struggling himself to break the contact. We are both panting, and I cannot even find the words to help him leave or to beg his return to my embrace.

“I should go armor up,” he says finally, “lest I forget that we’re supposed to be keeping watch.”

I groan and flop to the ground, letting the chill of the earth sooth the fires raging through my blood. What I felt when Cullen kissed me, what I experienced when Cailan claimed me, were the mere gutterings of low-burning candles compared with the wildfire ignited by Alistair’s touch. Either Maric’s second son is possessed of the greatest will in all Thedas, I think, or he feels only a scant echo of what he says. I would never have been able to pull away on my own, and now it will be so much more difficult to tell him the truth of my situation.

When I am finally able to get my racing heart to resume a normal rhythm, I sit up and venture to the cart, looking for something to fill my empty stomach before it resumes its usual complaining. Alistair joins me a short time later, grinning like a giddy fool. I feel my face mirroring that grin, and quickly hand Alistair a cured sausage and several small cheese wheels before he can begin any witty banter which I have no doubt will result in my losing composure and throwing myself into his arms.

As he nibbles at the cheeses, I assemble a selection for myself as well, then stop and turn to him. “Why did you keep your birthright a secret for so long?” I ask gently, trying to find a way to tell him my own secret.

“It never came up,” he evades, shrugging noncommittally.

“We both know that’s a cheap answer,” I tell him with mock sternness.

Alistair sighs and sets his cheese aside, giving me a look that pleads for understanding. “All right,” he says finally, “If you want the full explanation, I'll give it to you. The thing is, I'm used to not telling anyone who didn't already know. It was always a secret. Even Duncan was the only Grey Warden who knew. And then after the battle when I should have told you... I don't know. It seemed like it was too late by then. How do you just tell someone that?”

“I can understand that…” I say with a reflexive stroke of my still-flat belly.

“I...” he says, hanging his head and pacing away toward the fire, “I should have told you anyway.” Gesturing broadly with both hands, he turns to pace back. “It was important for you to know, but I guess part of me liked you not knowing.”

“You enjoyed not telling me?” I ask with some confusion.

“It’s just that when people find out, they treat me differently,” he says, sounding almost forlorn. He picks up the sausage and viciously bites the end off, chewing thoughtfully for several moments and swallowing, hard, before continuing. “I become the bastard prince to them instead of just Alistair. I know that must sound stupid to you, but I hate that it's shaped my entire life. I never wanted it, and I certainly don't want to be king. The very idea of it terrifies me.”

“You probably have no choice in the matter,” I tell him sadly, recalling the conversation with my companions in vivid detail.  
“You can say that again,” he sighs. “I don't think I've ever had a choice in the matter. Right from when I was born, all my choices have been made for me. I guess I should be thankful that Arl Eamon is far more likely to inherit the throne. If he's all right. I hope he's all right.” Alistair trails off and nibbles nervously at the cheeses again for some time. I set to consuming my own plate of food with singular determination, letting Alistair work his mind around to his next words.

“For what it's worth,” he says finally, “I'm sorry for not telling you sooner. I... I guess I was just hoping that you would like me for who I am. It was a dumb thing to do.”

“I adore you for who you are, Alistair,” I say to him, reaching out to lay my hand gently upon his shoulder, “knowing the truth of your bloodline doesn’t change how I feel, even if we’ll eventually have to face the full weight of what it means.”

“I guess it's kind of a relief that you know now,” he tells me with a grin.

“About that,” I say with a heavy swallow, dropping both of my hands contritely into my lap, “Leliana and Wynn know as well.”  
Alistair looks at me with wide, surprised eyes, a haze of fear and distrust entering their depths.

“Leliana tells me she performed for your father and your brother when she was a traveling minstrel,” I tell him quickly, gesturing expansively and wringing my hands. “She worked it out entirely on her own, and actually told me, not knowing you already had.” 

I breathe in deeply and meet his mildly suspicious gaze as I continue, “I told Wynn by accident tonight, because I had finally put together the last thing His Majesty Cailan had said to me before falling at Ostagar.”

Alistair cocks his head, simple curiosity erasing everything else in his gaze. “Before he handed me a rod of fire to light the beacon,” I tell Alistair nervously, “Cailan told me to go make sure you didn’t die by climbing some stairs.” I smile at the memory. “It wasn’t what he said, however, but how he said it. He called you by name and there was true affection in his voice, fondness in his expression. Your half-brother knew of you, and cared about you.”

I look Alistair deep in the eyes, watching the emotions dance through the back of his eyes too quickly to name them. “Cailan was Maric’s son, and not the bull-headed glory hound Loghain thought him,” I say softly into the stillness of the night. “His last, best hope for Ferelden was you, Alistair.” 

I hold up a hand, halting Alistair’s well-worn protest about being no leader before he can voice it. “You don’t have to face it now,” I whisper fondly, “and Andraste knows I’m not ready to face it yet.” I reach out my hands and he takes them in his own again, stepping closer in the gloom away from the fireside. 

“It will come up again before we face the Archdemon,” I say into the silence that has stretched between us, “and it is worth some consideration during our long marches. Promise me you will think on it?”

I let my hands slip from Alistair’s. He looks into my eyes for a long time before throwing up his hands with a snort of disgust. “Fine,” he says with frustration painting his tone, “but right now I’m eating my cheese.”

I laugh at the retort, and his hard expression softens into a smile as he enjoys the very fine gifts from Redcliffe. “Do you remember anything of your own family?” Alistair asks after fine food eases his long, brooding silence. 

“I have only a single letter from my mother, and I’ve read about a hundred reports and missives about her.” I fish the letter from my robe and hand it to Alistair. “She apparently became quite infamous after I went to the Tower,” I say with a proud and sly grin. “Of my father, I haven’t even a name.” The pain of that absence brings tears to my eyes and I cross my arms tightly about myself in attempt to push down my sudden wave of self-pity. “In my mother’s letter she mentioned brothers, but I don’t have a number or names, and no memories at all.”

Alistair opens the letter and looks cross-eyed at the incomprehensible cipher. He swallows, looks at me pensively, and refolds the letter. “Your name, Amell, it was a great house in Kirkwall.” He clears his throat and looks at me sadly, “In the Chantry, we learned about your aunt, Leandra, and her ill-fated tryst with a young Enchanter. He became an apostate and she was banished from the house. They disappeared with no trace.”

I hold myself tighter and bow my head, feeling the sting of tears. 

“Still reeling from the scandal,” Alistair continues after a moment, reciting as though from memory of a frequently read passage, “and from the loss of the head of the House, one of the children displayed terrifying magical talent in Kirkwall’s Chantry square.”

“I saved your brother from assassins,” I whisper softly, “and killed the assassins.” 

Alistair nods and continues “When Viscount Threnhold went mad, all of the Houses that had close ties with his were subject to scrutiny and predation from the new regime. Your house, your whole line, was erased from the rolls of Marcher nobility.”  
I sink to the ground, my face in my hands, and let the tears flow for family I would never know. Alistair sits upon the ground beside me, and takes me in his arms. I wrap my own around him and simply remain thus as the fire burns low across the camp. 

My tears ebb to a trickle then stop, and I look up into Alistair’s eyes gratefully. “You were a bit of a legend, you know,” he tells me softly, respect and desire smoldering at the back of his gaze, “the neophyte who saved the prince. You were also a cautionary tale in my Templar training, and I even saw you once in your own Circle Tower. I had trouble believing that someone who looked as delicate as you was so feared. Then Duncan set me to watch over you and the others at Ostagar, and I realized that you were far more formidable than even your legend.”

I reach up and tangle my fingers in Alistair’s hair, pulling his mouth to mine, and forgetting my sorrows in a long, deep kiss.   
The loud snapping of a twig in the fire breaks the stillness and parts Alistair’s lips from mine in mutual surprise. “You’ve been a much too welcome distraction from my duty since the day you sassed a Senior Enchanter at Ostagar,” I tell him with a grin and a playful kiss on the cheek. “I’m fairly certain I started falling for you right then, despite everything.”

We share a secret smile, and then Alistair helps me to my feet. I send him to fetch me water and some of the last of the bear jerky while I build up the fire and wrestle a pot over to make a stew for all of my companions to break their fast at dawn. As the darkest hours of the night fade to grey, and the amber rays of dawn begin to stretch over the canopy of the forested hills, I stand with my back to Alistair’s chest, his arms around me. He gazes out on all of the possibilities of days to come, and I gaze in at my own secrets which could still spell all manner of disaster.


	15. Over the Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revisiting Ostagar is hard for everyone

Our companions are just starting to stir for the morning when Alistiar and I hear raised voices in the distance. Wynn and Leliana are up first, so we take them with us, calling in hushed tones to Morrigan and Sten to protect the dwarves should anyone come upon our camp.

We move silently and swiftly through the trees, Alistair guiding me as I cast my senses ahead to find the source of the all-too-human calls. We find them quickly, and I halt my party before we come into view. There are six men, I tell them, five intent on capture of the other, who seems somehow familiar. My companions nod, and we creep to the top of a rise at the edge of a clearing. I let out an involuntary gasp as I recognize Cailan’s valet in the clearing below. He is surrounded by soldiers bearing Loghain’s standard, and they are approaching him threateningly. The valet stands his ground wearily, and I try to reach out with my shields to protect him, but he is just too far. I break for the valley below, my companions quick on my trail, but even so I am too late to save Cailan’s servant from the blade that slices viciously through his gut. My shields snap into place a moment too late, and in an absolute rage, I weave the spell to catalyze the spirit of his murderer into a bomb. My allies are still only halfway to the men in the clearing when my target explodes, pelting his own archers with gore and bone. I scream in frustration and anger as my group ends the rest of the soldier’s lives with crossbow, arrow, and bolts of pure will.

Wynn and I reach the fallen valet at the same time, and I release the shields. Wynn looks sadly at the damage. The man has been eviscerated, the wounds beyond ever her skill. The valet looks up at me in recognition, “I remember you,” he whispers, “the Warden mage.” I nod sadly, apologizing for being too late. “No,” he tells me, “you can still complete my mission.” He tells me of being entrusted with the key to Cailan’s private chest, and panicking, burying the key and fleeing when Loghain’s troops abandoned the battle. He explains how he was captured and had just escaped, trying to reach the camps at Ostagar to recover the important documents from the chest which might just turn the tide of the Bannorn completely against Loghain. “Find the key,” he tells me, “find the chest, and for the love of the Maker, give my King a proper pyre.” Wynn whispers a spell to ease the Valet’s passing, and immediately turns to me. “If you are going back to Ostagar,” she tells me, “You are taking me with you.” 

“And me,” Alistair says, “I left much unfinished there.”

I nod solemnly and we gather the body of the valet to burn properly. We set a pyre on the Kings Road for him, delaying the day’s march for some time to prevent setting the forest ablaze.

Morrigan is not best pleased with the idea that I am taking us back to the site of our ignominious defeat, but I distract her with the grimoire that I rescued from the First Enchanter’s study, asking her if she might be able to translate it. She is overjoyed upon receiving it, telling me that she had intended to ask if I might look for it should I return to the Tower, but realized she had not yet done so. I tell her that for some reason, the volume reminded me of Flemeth, and I felt she, Morrigan, might benefit from it. 

Morrigan weaves a tale of how this one book was the only instance in which her mother let secrets be taken, and she would waste no time uncovering them. Because of this, she volunteers to stay with the dwarves and our primary supplies and work further along the King’s road, closer to Denerim, awaiting us to rejoin her after my selected companions complete our reconnaissance of the fallen Ostagar camps. Convincing Sten to guard Morrigan in turn is a little more complicated, but I find an agreement to take him to Lake Calenhad as we return from Denerim, to search the site of the battle where he fell prior to the murders that found him caged in Lothering secures his aid.

Alistair, Leliana, Wynn, and I each pack modest supplies of rations and take our leave from the rest of our companions. Rumor encountered upon our journey thus far reports the bulk of the Darkspwan Horde having taken Lothering and being camped therein to bide time and increase numbers. Little intelligence was to be had regarding the remaining threat at or near Ostagar, but we figure the smaller group would have the greater chance of venturing in and out undetected.

We find few wandering darkspawn patrols as we cross between bogs and swamps in the Korcarri wilds. Even without Morrigan’s aid, Alistair, Wynn, and I have sufficient memory of the routes to Ostagar that we arrive to the ruins without incident less than half a day after leaving the King’s road.

We sneak into the ruins via a scouting path that Wynn describes as the escape route taken by the Circle. She and I have to dismantle several untripped emergency wards left behind by fleeing mages, but that proves no difficulty in the long run. Alistiar guides me by the hand for much of the path into the camps as I cast outward with my other senses, trying to determine whether and how much darkspawn presence we will encounter. I finally find the essences I seek. “There are many small bands,” I tell my companions finally, “mostly isolated from one another, likely manning traps and ambushes for unwary scouting patrols or bands of Chasind nomads. There are a few mages among them, but mostly across the bridge from the encampment and down below on the staked plains.”

My companions nod thoughtfully. “Leliana,” I whisper, “Wynn likely already had the warnings, but it’s good you fight with a bow. Stay well back of the darkspawn if you can, their blood carries a slow, painful death for which we have no cure.” 

She nods, and we move as stealthily as we can into the camps. Just inside the fortifications where the Ash Warriors had been camped prior to the battle, I motion a halt, Alistair and I share a long look and a nod before I indicate to our companions what we have both felt. Six foul creatures are arrayed before us, likely scavenging the last remnants of rotting flesh from the bodies of the many fallen. I motion to Wynn and Leliana to wait where they are and guard as Alistair and I creep closer, his blade unsheathed and determination to destroy the corruption before us written in every line of his body. 

I reach out to my power, sharpening and strengthing our weapons with an edge of our own spirits as Alistair and I fall silently on the first hurlock. Alistair plunges his blade straight through its back, and I feel only elation at the soft, surprised snarl it makes as its putrid, corrupt existence comes to a swift end. The snarl alerts the rest of the band, and I find myself sending bolts of pure energy through several other creatures as they turn to draw swords and charge Alistair. He doesn’t bother to reclaim his own blade, hefting the fallen hurlock’s instead and swinging it through the neck of a descending genlock. Several silver-fletched arrows blossom amid gouts of black, viscous blood from the other darkspawn as the battalion commander’s beady, reptilian eyes lock with mine. He makes rude gestures and charges me with a snarl, only to fly off his feet and fall backwards to the ground as a fist of sold stone flies over my shoulder and straight into his chest. I smile at what I know to be Wynn’s elemental manipulation even as I close to melee distance with a genlock, catching and turning a sword-thrust with my staff, and knocking it off-balance. The jarring impact of my oak and silverite rod makes my shoulders ache, even as I revel in the wet smacking sound of the weaponing opening my foe’s skull. An effort of only moments leaves every last horrid creature pouring the last of their life onto the frozen, blighted ground we cannot yet hope to reclaim. Darkspawn aren’t loyal or organized creatures. Had it been fellow humans, elves, or dwarves we attacked, calls would have gone up to bring the remainder of the area forces down upon us. As I push back down the visceral pleasure of destroying my enemies, I marvel that none called out for reinforcement. Much to my disgust, I also recognize Cailan’s gilded grieves upon the gnarled legs of the hurlock battalion commander. Alistair is enraged, and Wynn every bit as offended as I remove the beautiful golden armor from the foul corpse defiling it. We take special care to search the camps and the fallen, both friend and foe, for usable arrows. I also command everyone to search our own even more closely for any final missives that would have been intended for family or loved ones, this being the last mercy we could do so many of our fallen brothers and sisters.

We take our time and move across the camps systematically, surprising another several bands of darkspawn and removing more of Cailan’s gilded armor from the corpses we make of darkspawn packs. Each piece so recovered gives me need to fight back tears. Alistair and Wynn console one another with memories and promises for vengeance. Wynn and Leliana use the opportunity to subtly encourage Alistair to take the throne and right the grave injustice Loghain visited upon Cailan and these fallen men. I am too lost in my own bitter-sweet reminiscence to take either side in that discussion. 

I find the key precisely where the king’s valet had promised it would be. I also find the bespelled and camouflaged chest unmolested within the ruins of what had been Cailan’s command pavilion. The shredded canvas and blood-soaked carpets freeze my heart within my chest, and I cannot stop myself from sinking to my knees and weeping as a rush of memory and sensation overcome me. I am glad that my companions are busily searching bodies elsewhere as it takes some time for me to gather my composure before I can paw through the canvas to the chest. Unlocking it is quick work, and I am once again glad to be alone as I behold my own name scrawled hastily across a folded and wax-sealed parchment. I lift it with shaking hands and allow only a few more tears before tucking it into my robes and calling to my companions. We clear the chest, dividing the stacks of correspondence and jopurnals between the four of us for later reading, then pick our way across the camp, determined now to recover all of Cailan’s armor if we are able.

We take a moment in clearing the camps to walk upon the flagstones of the ruined temple where I undertook my joining. The thick, silver chalice I remember all too well sits in the shadow of a pedestal, the whole of this temple ruin untouched by the Darkspawn, as though they feared to enter. I hold the chalice reverently for a moment, tears glistening in my eyes before handing it to Alistair. “We shall need to rebuild at some point,” I tell him, choking back sobs. Alistair nods and stows the chalice stoically in his own rucksack, before taking my shoulder in hand and squeezing affectionately. I look into his eyes, letting his determination wash over me until my eyes reflect the same, then nod to him silently in thanks.

Crossing the bridge, the stench of a body defiled and left to rot greets us before we see the foul sculpture made of our once proud king. The unutterably vile darkspawn had dipped the body in pitch and tied it across a frame resembling broken wings, then raised it to be seen for miles across the valley below. The whole effigy constitutes a brutal mockery of the thousand statues of the victorious Garahel that grace every nation in Thedas. I feel my fists clench in the blackness of rage even as I hear a foul cackling and incantation from across the bridge. I rip my eyes from my desecrated lover in time to see a genlock emissary swirl his hands in the final motions of a powerful ritual summoning. Fourteen fallen Ferelden soldiers stand and turn toward my companions, seven before and seven behind us on the bridge. The ones ahead of us are joined by darkspawn archers, who ready themselves to begin loosing upon us. 

With a defiant scream, I reach out with my will and my senses, feeling the weave animating my fallen countrymen and rip it from the control of the vile beast who made it. As one, the shambling corpses turn and rush the darkspawn. The arrows aimed for me lower to pelt into the nearby corpses, even as I seek out the essence of the caster I have just robbed of his spell. Finding it, I twist his own essence into a crushing prison, feeding the power of his fear into it and reveling in his torture. I lose track of my companions as I gaze up at my fallen countrymen, weaving the contagious bomb into the ritual magic I have overtaken. I feel my heart ache for them even as I apologize and vow to them they will never again be used as weapons by another mage, friend or foe.

I kneel before Cailan’s body, tears streaming silently down my cheeks, as the explosions echo and re-echo through the valley below, erasing any further hope we had for the element of surprise. I know not how long I remain upon my knees in this way before I feel a hand upon each of my shoulders. One is strong, heavy, and I can hear the articulation of metal plates as it squeezes my right shoulder. The other is soft, gentle, and light, though it squeezes my left with strength and intensity. 

I look up into Alistair’s warm, golden gaze first, then turn to meet Wynn’s steely pale blue. As one they say, “We will come back and cut him down, but we need to avenge him first.” They look to each other and nod solemnly, then turn to look behind me. “Indeed.” I hear Leliana say softly from behind me, “Now get up, Tethys, there is much to do.”

I stand without speaking, and turn from my defiled king, unconsciously placing a protective hand over my abdomen and the secret child who will never know its father. I stride forth over the stones of the bridge freshly spattered with the carnage of my wrath, and stop only when I reach the body of the emissary, fallen upon the heavy gilded steel of Cailan’s shield. It may have protected him from the blasts, but it was useless against my direct will. I grin in satisfaction as I rip his corpse from the shield’s bindings with my will alone, and fling the body into the valley below. “This belongs to my king,” I say as I lift the shield, turning to present it to Alistair. I hold it out to him, staring into his eyes steadily until Leliana comes forward and helps him unbuckle his own shield, setting it aside as we secure the shining silveritie disc bearing the combatant mabari of the royal crest in its place. 

Alistair stands and looks into my eyes, his face pale, drawn, even as he stands straighter. “No vile darkspawn shall have it,” he says reverently, testing its weight. He bears the crest of House Theirin well, I think, even as I place fist to chest and bow to my companion.

Leliana and Wynn do the same, then turn and follow me forward into further battle. Whether Alistair intended to accept our declared allegiance or not, he has no time to say. Instead, he follows me silently into battle, and does so without hesitation. None of us speak much as we lay siege to the genlocks who overtook the royal army’s ballista and turn them upon us. None of us speak as we head up to the tower of Ishal, seeing the doors forced open from the inside. I do feel a small sense of hope return as I realize the court of the tower is not littered with the corpses of the men Alistair and I had saved from the first taking of the tower. Obviously our men had returned to other posts when the signal beacon was lit successfully. My heart swells with pride at that thought, and I motion my companions into the tower.

“Just like old times,” Alistair quips as we stand over the bodies of freshly slain darkspawn within the Tower of Ishal. He reaches over and picks a string of darkspawn gore from my hair. 

“Still ready to dance with me, my lord?” I ask with a soft smile.

“Always, my lady,” He returns with a grin, offering his arm as he did last time we mounted the steps to the tower gates.  
“Though, I think I may even be better dressed for the next ball,” he tells me as we stop to retrieve Cailan’s finely crafted pauldrons from a fallen emissary. 

“You will have to lend me your Remigold dress,” I counter with a wicked grin as I slip the corpse free of the armor, “you see my only ball gown was left quite damaged after our last dance.”

Alistair looks at me with wide eyes, recalling as well his own quip before we engaged the enemy here, but obviously shocked that I did. I see unshed tears sparkle at the back of his eyes as he triumphantly stores the golden armor pieces in a large sack he seems to have scavenged for just this purpose. Only the royal helm and sword remain to be found. I am determined to find them, I realize. We venture through the tower in silence, save when battle overtakes us and we roar out calls of vengeance. 

Just before we reach the great breach in the tower floor that both Alistair and I recall all too vividly, we find a hurlock general rather competently commanding a troop of archers. He is wearing Cailan’s golden helm incongruously with his piecemeal mail and plate armors. The sight infuriates me, and I stride forward, pushing up a shield to meet a hail of arrows, providing just enough distraction for Alistair to rush the general and run him through. Wynn and Leliana systematically destroy the archers with perfectly aimed arrows and bolts of pure will. I remove the helm carefully from the corpse, and add it to Alistair’s collecting bag.

We fight our way through the lower chambers of the tower and out onto the fields below. As we emerge into the falling dusk, a hideous genlock completes the incantation and gesticulation of a necromantic summons. I feel the sickly, slimy essence of the weave, and cannot seem to turn it on itself, even as the largest ogre I hope I ever see crawls to its feet. I recognize the hilt of Duncan’s sword protruding from its chest, and the pommel of his favorite dagger sticks from the socket where the creature’s left eye once was. The ogre bellows, and the very stones of the ruins about us shake. I am held speechless in shock as I hear the echoed laughter from the Archdemon who showed me the fall of this ogre again and again, to revel in its triumph of slaying both Duncan and Cailan. I feel as though I may vomit or collapse until the summoner lets out its own cackle and attempts to slip away. 

“This will not stand!” I cry out silently in my head. Then I see the shining gold of the sword strapped to the summoner’s back and I scream my fury aloud. I weave the summoner’s essence upon itself, entrapping him in a crushing prison. Wynn calls the earth to tremble in a great quake, knocking over the ogre, and Alistair and Leliana shower the trapped caster with arrows and crossbow bolts until its screams stop and it lays motionless upon the ground. When it has no life essence left to turn against itself, the prison falters. Fortunately, death of the caster also severs the link with the construct, and the ogre falls still and unmoving as well. 

For good measure, however, Alistair decapitates the beast even as I retrieve Cailan’s sword from the caster and do the same to its corpse. We wrench Duncan’s weapons free of the monstrous ogre corpse as well, then walk back up through the tower to the bridge silently. Alistair sets the large satchel of Cailan’s armor down near his place of defilement as my companions build a pyre. I, meanwhile overturn every barrel of pitch and oil in the camps that I can find

We finally take down the mistreated corpse when we have assembled enough wood. We lay the body of our fallen king naked upon his final, wooden bed and move the sack of armor further across the bridge. I no longer possess a rod of fire, but Wynn has no need of one, producing a small gleaming sphere of flame above her palm without gesture or incantation. With a prayer for forgiveness, she tosses it upon the stacked wood. Within moments, the pitch-soaked body is alight, and each of my companions whispers quiet words to honor our king. It is not the grand ceremony that would befit his station, but it is an act of reverence and devotion. As such, it is a fitting tribute, and one which I think Cailan would be at least somewhat pleased by. 

As we exit the bridge, I ask Wynn for one more little ball of flame. She provides it, and we leave all of Ostagar in flames, granting no ground to the Blight if we are able. 

The arms and armor are heavy. We construct a makeshift sled using Alistair’s old shield and Ballista bolts for runners, but that simply makes moving the assembled gear louder and no less cumbersome. 

As we come by a bend in the exit path, we see a toppled wagon obviously abandoned by some of the camp laundresses. Large cauldrons lay on the road and the verge, having spilled from the turned cart. We find ourselves saying prayers to the maker, hoping the laundresses escaped safely. We right the cart, loading it with only a single cauldron, at my insistence, and the assembled arms and armor. Pulling the cart is much easier, and the moon rises bright enough for us to follow the old road from Ostagar back to the King’s highway and the fallen town of Lothering.

We find a farmstead near the road, abandoned but whole. I find this strange until we are at the walls and I feel the soft essence of wards. I place my hand on the door, extending my senses to see if I can find a way to circumvent them, but the door opens at my touch. Inside is a tidy cabin full of carefully stacked and labeled crates. The whole place has the feel of a dwelling silently awaiting an expected caravan to move the occupants. A closer inspection of the crates reveals a seal I know all too well, but I retrieve my mother’s letter from my robe and compare it to be certain. “House Amell,” I whisper before reading the instructions on the boxes “Deliver to Leandra Hawke, care of Gamlen Amell, Chantry Square, Kirkwall.” 

“Cousland said he met my aunt once,” I say after reading the package slip again. Among the crates are others marked for Bethany Hawke, Carver Hawke, and Annabelle Hawke, all care of Gamlen Amell. No wonder the wards let me in,” I say with a smile, “I’m family.” Tears prickle the backs of my eyes at the thought of actually belonging, even in a small way like this.  
A nearby well yields water as fresh and clear as one could hope, and I take the opportunity to cook a stew composed of dry rations and foraged herbs on a real hearth fire. After finishing our evening meal, I set a fire beneath the cauldron and boil water, setting in each piece of Cailan’s armor to wash off the memory of the Darkspawn filth. Leliana sits up with me to do this while Alistair and Wynn take rest. 

Leliana asks if I knew much of our fallen King, and I tell her that he was passionate and brave, and like any child born of love and raised with it, much too ready to trust and hope. “Pessimism and paranoia are not virtues,” she tells me with a lip curled in disgust.

“No,” I tell her with a pointed grimace, “but they help you live longer.”

She laughs as she agrees, then helps me retrieve and lay the armor upon the floor of the cottage to dry. We then sit companionably back-to-back beside the hearth to begin going through the correspondence from Cailan’s chest. I open the seal upon the letter addressed directly to me, and take a deep breath before prying open the folds of parchment.


	16. A Letter and a Last Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude after the clearing of Ostagar. Non-canon information revealed.

My Dearest One,

If you are reading these words, the unthinkable has occurred and I have fallen in defense of my country against the legions of the Blight. If this is so, our only hope of continuing to be Ferelden is to unite my people behind the banners of my father’s second son, my half-brother, Alistair. He will have avoided telling you the secret of his blood if he could, and his being a Grey Warden may also complicate matters. Queen Anoura, though shrewd and well-schooled in the ways of Bannorn politics, has no understanding of the meanings of love or sacrifice. She will never put my people before her desires. Even could she learn to do so, she has no heir, nor would she ever condescend to bear one to any man. The throne will never be secure as long as she sits upon it. 

My uncles, Eamon and Teagan shall see the strength in Alistair’s claim and back him without doubt, but it will take someone with your passion, your will, your courage to shape him into the King my people need and deserve. My journal and those of my father will help with that. Alistair need only retrieve the amulet Eamon repaired for him to unlock them. If he applies a drop of blood upon the lock, all will be made clear in them. I will not need to explain to you the blood cypher that protects the words from all but the kings of Ferelden, but you may need to convince my brother that it is not an affront to the Maker, Templars being Templars after all.

I know it is unfair of me to lay such expectations on your young shoulders, especially after we had so brief a time together. Yet, I have known you almost your entire life, and have absolute confidence that you are capable of what I ask. That you could recall the first time we met when I could finally meet you undisguised left my heart soaring, but I was grieved at how much you could not recall.

You had no memory of how you would wake in the hold of the ship night after night on the crossing, screaming for me and refusing to sleep again until the Templars could show I was still alive and you hadn’t failed me. You had no knowledge at all of the long, fraught journey from our landfall at Jader to the King’s road. You told me you had only nightmares of the smell of darkspawn, but I watched you, a child of six, lay waste to the foul things, preserving the lives of your Templar captors. 

Three times over, I owed you my life before we reached Kinloch hold, and yet I failed you, handing you over to the Circle, because I feared what you might become without the training only other mages could offer. I promised your mother I would watch over you, but the Circle is a secret and insular place. It was only by the purest stroke of chance that I learned about Harrith’s little addiction, and was able to pry the secrets of Kinloch’s Templars from him, eventually borrowing his armor so that I could tour the Tower unobserved and secretly deliver the letter your mother had entrusted to me.

My cunning plan did not last past the apprentice quarters, where you walked directly up to me and stared once more straight into my soul. You were just short of your twelfth year, a pale, thin reflection of the woman you would become. Yet there was such confidence in your voice when you addressed me, asking my business within the tower. “For you are not a Templar,” you said to me “even if you have put on one of the uniforms.” You looked at me then with such confusion and concern. “I know you,” you said, “Why do I know you?” I gave you your mother’s letter and told you honestly that I promised to watch over you. I will never understand how you saw right through to the truth of me, or why you took my hand and let me walk and speak with you for hours in the Tower gardens. What I do know is that in those few hours by your side in chaste conversation, I knew a greater sense of love and belonging than I had ever before.

I begged my father on my return to Denerim to let me end the contract for marriage to Anoura before I was forever bound to her. I told him of you and that even so young you were twice the woman of the one to whom I was engaged. He smiled fondly, reminding me that even if I married for love, a mage could never be my queen. He told me it was best I turn aside and not seek you again, “for down that path comes only heartache, and no Theirin can put love before duty.” 

I implored him for the sake of the beauty and truth in your eyes. I learned of my half-brother that night, and I cannot even fault my father for his transgression against my mother, because I understand all too well. I stole every chance I could to visit Kinloch hold, to walk with you in the gardens or spend an hour next to you in prayer. When I left your side, your eyes haunted my dreams every night until I finally held you in my arms.

It was so much easier to disappear for a visit to the Tower when my father yet lived. Anoura accused me of the most scandalous affairs when I continued to seek to watch over you after my marriage. She was not entirely correct, but the truth would have damned me so much more certainly. I was always convinced that when I caught sight of you again on a visit to the Tower, I would no longer recognize you. Yet each time I would know you at a glance, even when your beautiful eyes faced away from me. You always knew me, even in my disguise and before I would speak. 

I was both elated and agonized to see Duncan escort you to Ostagar as his newest recruit. It had always been my aim to request you as mage to the Crown upon your elevation to Enchanter. That Duncan found you first means that tonight I take into battle the memory of your touch, your kiss. I take into battle the knowledge that I alone have tasted the full sweetness of making love to you. As though in answer to the many prayers I have said in secret to the Maker since that fateful day twelve years past, you found me in the dark hours before your Joining and made my heart once again whole.

For the very reason I owe my life to you, I could not make you my queen, my darling Tethys. Yet, you have forever occupied a place in my heart, and have proved to be more than everything I dreamed. I regret only that I did not have more time to hold you, more time to let you learn to love me in return. If I am to die in battle this eve, I shall at least do so secure in the knowledge that I have sent you safely from the fray, and provided you the protection of the one man in Ferelden that might prove worthy to guard you and watch over you if I fall. I love you, Tethys Amell, and face my fate now secure in the knowledge that you have loved me at least a little in return.

With love even beyond my dying breath,  
Cailan Theirin   
***

Tears pour silently down my cheeks as I read and re-read the letter. Cailan had loved me. My King had loved me for most of my life, silently and from afar. Yes, I had given myself to him pledged myself until death could part us, but never once thought of myself as more than his obligation or one brief dalliance among many. I did him a great disservice, for I had lain with him already bearing the first spark of feeling for his half-brother. I do Alistair a disservice now, secretly carrying the child of a man who placed me in Alistair’s arms for protection out of an enduring and quiet love for me, never aware of the passion already smoldering there for another. 

I sob heavily, and feel my back momentarily cold and unsupported until Leliana wraps sure arms about me, plucking away the letter as it slips from my fingers. A sharp intake of breath greets her completion of read-through, and I tremble within her comforting arms, weeping silently.

“How do I love Alistair,” I ask Leliana, “when it means betraying his brother’s memory?” I sob silently several times before I can catch my breath. “And how can I honor Cailan’s memory without betraying my own heart?”

“You dry your eyes, no?” Leliana whispers to me softly, stroking my hair. “You face the battle beside the man you love, and protect the child of the man who loved you. You tell Alistair the whole truth when the knowing will not get him killed. Honor them both by helping Alistair to become a great king, and love them both by stepping aside for the queen who must inevitably produce an heir for Ferelden.”

The words twist in my gut and I know them for truth. No Theirin has ever placed love before duty. Alistair is not likely to break that mold, and I must honor and love both men by not asking it. I breathe deeply and sigh, “You are right, friend of my heart.”

Leliana hugs me fiercely until I playfully complain that we are falling behind on our reading. Leliana folds the letter from Cailan and hands it back to me, telling me that I must keep it because every child should know it was conceived in love, especially one who will never know the father that loved them. I nod wordlessly and then roll the parchment carefully, tucking it around the stem of Alistair’s rose within the ornate scroll case.

I then set to reading my stack of troop and scouting reports, which only serve to confirm my suspicion that Cailan’s battle plan was not flawed, and Loghain’s armies would handily have overwhelmed the assembled horde had his troops not retreated at my signal. Any respect or devotion I may have once felt for the Hero of the River Dane is replaced now with bitter hatred. My soul demands justice for the father of my unborn child, and I shall have it.

“You are quite adept at the Game,” Leliana muses after we have been reading for some time, “I never guessed that when you said your lover died with the King’s army at Ostagar that it was the King himself.”

“It was the absolute truth,” I tell her, “like every Ferelden king worth the title since Calenhad, Cailan lead from the front, fighting alongside his men.”

“Alistair will do the same, no?” Leliana asks, “but he will be wise enough to keep you near to protect him, so he will survive.”  
I beam at my companion and return to my study.

I wake Wynn first for her watch, and help her with the final steps of the potions to help protect my babe from the darkspawn taint. I close my eyes and feel out the spells that Wynn weaves over me with my other senses, knowing that with nightly repetition, I may be able to eventually cast them myself.

The treatments complete, I let Wynn and Leliana discuss Leliana’s readings thus far as I kneel next to Alistair’s bedroll , and gently kiss him while I tickle his senses to wakefulness with an effort of will. I undertake the actions playfully, but am surprised to find Alistair sitting upright with myself pulled across his lap and the kiss deepening with every bit of the other evening’s passion a heartbeat after our lips touch. When he finally breaks the kiss, all I can do is pant and hold onto his shoulders for dear life while my mind reels in ecstatic bliss. 

“Good morning, sweet lady,” he whispers softly to me once he catches his own breath, “now it’s your turn to dream about me for a while.” 

“Most gladly, and your shining armor should be ready to don by now, my prince,” I whisper to him as he rolls me off his lap and into his warmed bedroll. I smile up at him as I gesture toward the gilded plate laid out before the hearth and glittering in the fire’s light. I pillow my head upon my own tightly bound bedroll, just as Alistair had done while I kept watch. My last sight before I slip into what I hope will be dreamless sleep is of Wynn and Leliana helping buckle my fellow Warden into a king’s recovered armor against his protests.

The soft brush of warm lips against my own is an experience I would love to get used to, I realize as my eyes flutter open to meet Alistair’s golden gaze. I reach up and lay my hands gently upon his stubble-roughened cheeks and smile languidly. “You know,” I say softly, his very first words to me fresh in my mind after lovely dreams, “the great thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.” I pull his lips to mine and kiss him once more before letting him help me to my feet. 

When I am standing again, I look him up and down with great pleasure. “The armor suits you,” I tell him gently.

“It was his,” Alistair tells me bitterly, “how am I supposed to wear it?”

“Quite well from what I see.” I tell him admiringly. I plant my hands upon his pauldrons, leaning forward and whispering in his ear, “and a sight better than Cailan wore it actually, Leliana and Wynn are much better valets than his majesty’s squires were.”

Alistair laughs at my quip, and blushes slightly as I press one final kiss to his cheek before stepping away.

“I don’t jest, you know,” I tell him very softly, the warmth in my eyes attempting to dispel the haunted shadow in his, “the armor does suit you quite well. I’m glad they got you into it, and not only because it means you’re carrying it and not me.”  
Alistair laughs at the quip, saying “I agree, it does weigh a lot less this way, and it’s almost as fetching as the Templar uniforms.”

“Much, much more fetching,” I tell him warmly as I kneel down to roll and secure the bedrolls for carrying.

I add the location of my cousins’ cabin to our travelling map as we exit for the day’s march, making a vow to come back and hire a trusted caravan to send their belongings as soon as shipping routes to Kirkwall can be restored. As we begin moving, my companions and I share notes on what we have uncovered throughout the night’s explorations into the documents recovered from Cailan’s chest. Alistair reviews the stack of official correspondence with Orlais, which confirmed that his majesty had actually requested and received confirmation that aid would be given in the face of the Blight. Not that this assistance would actually be of use to anyone with Loghain still poised to overtake the throne. I review the troop reports, and explain with some venom that Cailan’s plan was solid and would have resulted in one more victory for Ferelden had Loghain followed the King’s orders. Leliana sadly informs us that she had simple rosters. Wynn explains that her allotment included personal correspondence and His Majesty’s journals. Some of King Maric’s journals had also been within the trunk. Wynn tells us the journals are written in a cypher, and breaking it will be difficult to impossible. Leliana and I look to each other, trying to determine how best to explain what we know without bringing up my private letter. I shrug, buying some time by asking Wynn if I might borrow the journals to look at them myself, since breaking cyphers was one of my special studies in the Circle. She agrees readily.

Blight and devastation are apparent on both sides of the King’s highway as we move past the Korcari wilds and closer to the margins of the Brecilian forest. We encounter only straggling bands of darkspawn. We also pass the ruins of Lothering, which was overrun but is not held by any marked force of vile creatures. From the blanket of crows we are quite confident that there are no survivors. We pause only to say prayers to the Maker before pressing on in hopes of catching up to our supplies.   
As the sun is beginning to set for the eve, we happen upon our small band of friends, stopped at a stream to fill our water casks. They happily report a smooth, slow, and eventless journey along the King’s road for the last several days, but I can tell that Morrigan is all but vibrating with excitement. She whispers to me that she has managed to figure out the key to the grimoire, and shall have it translated by Denerim if the days continue so eventless. I congratulate her ingenuity, which is just the stroking her pride seems to need. 

We set camp there by the stream, pitching tents while our friendly dwarven merchants build the fire and prepare dinner. As we sit down together for our evening meal, Wynn hands me two small leather-bound tomes. Each has an intricate, jeweled embellishment that also seems to serve as a mechanism to clasp the books, should a lock be needed. When the hasps are closed, I can see the unmistakable pattern of where to fit Alistair’s amulet. I stare at the tomes for a long while, debating what to tell Alistair. He has every right to know my secrets, and to hear them from my lips. I sigh long and low, gazing about at my smiling companions. In this moment, even Morrigan is finding joy in the simple act of breaking bread with companions who were happy to see her again. Every one of us knows that we may face death at any moment and that what we do with the moments we are living is all that truly matters. I swallow, hard, and straighten my back, setting aside the tomes.

“Alistair and I will take first watch,” I call gently into a lull in conversation. “Leliana will stand second watch with Morrigan, and Sten with Wynn on third. Sleep well, my friends. We enter the Brecilian Forest tomorrow, and we may find little rest for the duration we are within.”

My companions nod somberly, even the Freddicks, and find their ways to their respective tents. Alistiar and I banter quietly about similar but unshared experiences living among Templars until we hear soft snores rise from every tent.

“Alistair,” I say softly into the night, wrapping my travelling cloak tightly about myself as more security blanket than to ward of chill.

He turns those amazing golden orbs and a winning smile upon me, and I must snuggle tighter within the cloak to go on.  
“I understand why you wished not to tell me of your bloodline,” I start, hesitantly. I slide the two journals toward him gently, swallowing hard against my growing anxiety at telling him the whole truth.

“You say that like you’re regretting that I told you,” he says suspiciously, his gilded plates groaning as he straightens his back and crosses his arms defensively over his knees.

“No,” I say hurriedly. “I’m glad that you trusted me with the secret, glad that I learned from your lips…” I shrug, feeling the pit drop out of my stomach, “…and not elsewhere.”

Alistair cocks his head at me in confusion, his eyes clouding with a thousand emotions as he shifts away from me, obviously preparing for rejection.

“I owe you the same respect,” I say softly, “I want to give you the same trust…” I swallow again, feeling myself start to tremble, “the same opportunity for the truth to change how you see me.”

“I knew more about your family history than you did,” He tells me with a soft, relieved grin, “what could you possibly be hiding?”

“That I’m not a virgin,” I blurt out, staring down at my toes and picking nervously at my own fingernails.

“When you came right out and asked me about it,” Alistair says gently, coaxingly,” I figured you weren’t.”

“It’s more than that,” I say, deflating completely. “It is who my lover was, and what that means…”  
I look up into his eyes, willing him to see to the haunted depths of my soul.

“When I was very young,” I begin reluctantly, “I met someone. He cared for me in secret for years as I grew up, trying never even to let me know.”

Alistair nods silently, watching me very closely, but holding his tongue.

“When we met again at Ostagar, there was something familiar and comfortable about him, and I was drawn to his company.” I smile softly, remembering the wonder in Cailan’s blue gaze as he beheld me disrobing. “He told me nothing of his secret love, but only talked of how we would face death in battle, and should do so having a memory of pleasure to give us strength.” 

My mouth is suddenly dry and my throat thick as my mind replays disjointed snippets of my one day of physical passion. I clear my throat and stare into the fire, finally finding my voice “…and then after…”

I swallow hard, my hands balling into fists as tears slip slowly from the corners of my eyes. I close my eyes tightly, willing the tears to stop, and force myself to breathe slowly, evenly, even as the horrific images the archdemon showed me of Cailan’s death flash through my mind. Alistair sits silently, stoically only slightly removed from me. I reopen my eyes as the crushing band the memories have wrapped around my heart finally eases. I see an untold number of emotions and expressions ripple across Alistair’s features and through his eyes, before he settles again to impassive listening.

“And then after…” I start again, “… he sent me to the Tower of Ishal to make sure his brother survived the battle even if he did not.”

I hold Alistair’s gaze, willing him to read the truth written in mine.

“You…” Alistair starts, his tone wavering between shock and condemnation, “were Cailan’s mistress?”

I flinch at the tone, at the question, and huddle tighter within my cloak. “There are no legends of women who can resist the charms of Theirin men,” I say bitterly, defensively, feeling tears build at the backs of my eyes. I straighten my spine and stare pointedly at the spot on Alistair’s chest where his mother’s amulet should sit against his skin beneath the armor. “And plenty of rumors and whispers about the women who fail to resist.”

It’s Alistiar’s turn to recoil, gauntlet rising to cover the spot where I stare.

“As I said,” I begin again after collecting myself, “Cailan told me nothing of his long-held and secret affection before the battle.” I stand, fishing Cailan’s letter from the bottom of the scroll case, and dropping it upon the journals before Alistair. “I also felt more for you than any man, living or dead before I even knew your family name.”

I turn away from my companion, staring out into the blackness of the night beyond the fire. Wrapping my arms about myself tightly, I fight back the sorrow and loss that threaten to overrun my spirit. After a long stretching silence where I can hear the absolute stillness that Alistair is maintaining behind me, I clear my throat and speak, not daring to look behind.

“Knowing it now, you cannot think me any more terrible than I do myself…” I stalk toward the hobbled horses, my head hanging. I pause to look back over my shoulder, fearing to see what is written in Alistair’s eyes, but knowing I have to meet them as I say the next words. “…for when I read of it last night, my thoughts were not compassion for the man who loved me, nor a reciprocation of that love. My thoughts were entirely of what would pass through a set of golden eyes when telling the man that I love the very thing most likely break his heart and to drive him away.”

Tears fall unrestrained as I stride away toward our horse and the Freddick’s mule, not daring to look back again. I busy myself for a time, ensuring that the animals are comfortable and well groomed. I finally take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and turn back toward the low-burning fire. Alistair paces at the edge of the fire’s cheery glow. My letter crushed tightly in one gauntleted fist.

I enter the ring of the fire’s glow soundlessly, but Alistair turns to me immediately as though I have made all the noise of a pack of feral mabari. 

I stand with my shoulders squared, but eyes downcast awaiting rejection and humiliation, listening to Alistair’s footfalls as he draws nearer. A gauntleted fist touches my chin gently, drawing my gaze upward. The golden gaze is unreadable as Alistair searches my bared soul.

“You love… me?” He asks, the insecurity in his voice both heartbreaking and endearing.

“Yes…” I whisper, the whole truth spilling from my lips before I can think. “… from the moment you plucked darkspawn from my hair and agreed to dance with me at the Tower of Ishal.” 

The bittersweet memory twists in my chest. I lift the edges of my mouth into a wavering smile as I gaze into the liquid gold of my companion’s eyes.

“Why tell me any of it?” He asks, his voice straining and eyes confused.

“Because you deserve the truth, and from my lips while I still draw breath to speak it,” I say with a sigh. “Because Cailan was right, Ferelden needs you rule. Because…” I lower my voice to a whisper, and close my eyes sadly. “…the truth gives you a reason to leave me while I might still survive letting you go.”

“But Tethys,” he says gently, letting go of my chin only to gather me in his arms, “I don’t want to be King.”

“You want Loghain on that throne even less,” I say with a sad sigh, laying my head upon Alistair’s gilded breastplate.  
Alistair rests his cheek atop my head as he holds me silently for a long while.

As the fire burns low and the chill of the metal creeps into my skin, I push away and break the silence.

“You should read that letter if you haven’t already,” I tell Alistair gently, “among other things it explains how to read the Theirin journals.” Alistair looks mutely at the parchment still clutched in his fist, and then sheepishly back at me. “And if you would like to go put them in your tent now,” I continue, “I will help you out of that armor before I wake Leliana and Morrigan.”

Alistair shakes his head as he complies, smoothing the letter and folding it neatly, capturing it between the pages of one of the journals as he pushes aside the flaps of his tent, setting them delicately inside., his fingers lingering thoughtfully on the cover of the top journal before he walks back to me. Having some experience with the armor, I release Alistair deftly, and help him stow the pieces reverently on the supply wagon, covering them gently with empty grain sacks.

Silence stretches between us, but it is not brooding or fraught. We share the comfortable, contemplative quiet of friends with much on their minds. Freed of his armor, Alistair catches hold of me and embraces me once more before wishing me good night and disappearing into his tent. I wake Leliana and Morrigan, heading to my own tent after. For what I hope to be the last time for weeks, I allow myself the solace of silent tears until the call of the Fade finally overcomes me.

Before I step into the sea of dreams, I check the bindings on the caged archdemon essence within myself. As the bindings are secure, I step up and out of my own little bubble of light within the greater sea. I wander to the outer islands of the fade, practicing the shifting of shapes that I had learned in Sloth’s realm. As I alight on one of the islands of the outer Fade, I recognize the spires and arches of the ruins at Ostagar. I see a being of pure light shaped into the form of a Templar, recognizing it as the spirit Valour, having met him twice before. I resume my own shape before approaching. “Well met, Valour,” I say politely on my approach.

“Young Mage,” he greets in return, inclining his helm.

“I’m sorry, I was unable to find either Justice or Compassion during my fight at the Tower,” I tell him, remembering his request from our last meeting.

“They have been trapped outside the Fade,” Valour tells me sadly. “I can only hope they find a way to return before your world corrupts them.

I walk the battlefield at Ostagar for some time beside Valour, until he stops, waiting for a shimmering mist to coalesce. I recognize the contours of the battlefield, realizing that it is the same as the place my friends and I slew the darkspawn necromancer. The mists solidify into a being of light, much like Valour himself, only instead of a Templar’s helm, a handsome face forms above the unmistakable lines of heavy plate armor. The planes and contours of the visage remind me simultaneously of both Duncan and Cailan, but do not quite match my memory of either man. “Welcome, Honour,” Valour says as the mists solidify in their new shape. 

Honour bows to Valour, and salutes me with fist to chest. “I know you, young mage,” the newly coalesced spirit says to me, “but I know not how.” 

“As Valour once explained to me,” I say hesitantly, “Spirits are born of pure intention.”

Honour and Valour nod in agreement. “I was one of the many who kept their word here and fought until overwhelmed by the enemy. I was saved and returned here to reclaim some of what was lost and to lay the King and his armies that fell here to rest.”

“Then you may well be kin to me, young mage,” Honor says with a respectful nod.

“Tethys,” I say softly to the spirits, “my name is Tethys.”

Both spirits sample the sound and intonation of my name, nodding when they have mastered it.

“Were there many spirits or demons born upon this field?” I ask after the nod.

“Only a few,” Valour tells me somberly, “I had thought Justice might return here, but I fear he may not be able.”

I nod sadly and promise to keep an eye for the spirit while I venture about my own world. I take my leave then, slipping back into the sea of dreams and seeking the dim bubble of my own, hoping to reside there peacefully until dawn.


	17. Secrets and Assassins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets threaten to drive a wedge between the Wardens, but nothing brings people back together faster than the possibility of actually losing one another.

As has become my habit too often, I rise well before the end of last watch. Wynn has spent her watch brewing the potions for protecting my babe, and re-casts the spells upon me. She gives her best look of motherly concern after.

“You look as if you’ve wept like one who has lost everything,” she tells me, “what troubles you so, child?” 

“I told the man I love of the man who loved me,” I say to Wynn, the melancholy in my tone enough to dampen any spirit. 

“And just how did Alistair react to the news of you carrying his brother’s child?” she asks. One fine, grey eyebrow rises, which is the only thing that betrays curiosity underlying the condemnation in the stern lines of her mouth.

“I never told you…” I start, my eyes round with shock.

“I was not born last Summerday,” Wynn interrupts, fixing me with a stern glare. “You wept far too long over the corpse of our fallen King for one who did not know him intimately, and you didn’t have us hare off to search out the mementos of any fallen warrior save His Majesty.”

I drop my face into my hands and curl in on myself, but I have no more tears to shed. 

“You’re far too naive for the game you find yourself playing, child.” Wynn’s voice is quiet, affectionate as though she is trying to soothe a fussy babe. “It’s likely for the best if he’s set you aside,” she continues, “after all, Love is a selfish emotion, and neither of you have the luxury to put the other before the fate of the world…”

“I didn’t tell him about the child,” I whisper, “for exactly that reason.” I unfold myself, straightening my spine and breathe deep, centering myself in an exercise of the control I’ve practiced most of my life. I turn and face bleak, emotionless, lavender eyes to Wynn’s pale gaze. “If Alistair ever knew about the child, he would not step up to the duty Ferelden demands now, insisting the throne go to Cailan’s heir ” I say with cold logic, “and the Bannorn would never allow the child of a known mage to be given the crown.” 

Wynn opens her mouth to speak, and I silence her with a glare. “If I survive long enough that I can’t hide the pregnancy any longer, Alistair will piece it all together. Until then, no one will tell him and risk his concluding that his blood demands no duty to Ferelden after all.” 

Wynn nods in assent, a blandly thoughtful expression painting the lines of her face.

“Now I’ll go wash off my sorrows before Alistair wakes and sees them,” I announce softly as I get to my feet and leave the camp in the misty pre-dawn gloom. 

As I head toward the stream where we filled casks the evening before, Wynn calls my name. I ignore the summons, desiring nothing more than my own counsel for a time. I wade into the water, far downstream from the waterfall, allowing the hem of my robe to submerge as I incant the spell to move its contamination into the stream and away.

I walk back out, shucking my soft boots and laying my robe out flat atop an outcrop of bare rock at the edge of a small waterfall, then dig my bar of softly scented soap from my satchel and wade back in just barely downstream of the falls. The stream is surprisingly warm in the early morning chill, apparently clinging tenaciously to the last of yesterday’s sunlight. I sigh loudly as I sit down in a waist- deep pool at the base of the waterfall, completely submerging myself. I rise to my knees in the pool, only my shoulders and head above the surface and lather myself languidly. I sigh again, pleased at the feeling of being clean and potentially hopeful again. I stand, striding back to my boots on the shore as the first rays of dawn paint the sky above. I dry my toes on the grasses at the edge of the stream and retrieve fresh stockings from my satchel before slipping into my boots, which are still damp outside, but dry within as any good Ferelden boot should be. I smile at the simple pleasure of warm, dry feet and step to the outcrop of rocks to retrieve my robe. As I do, slipping it over my somewhat air-dried skin, I gasp sharply. Just beyond the rocky outcrop where I dried my robe, the unmistakable shapes of trousers, tunic, and knit socks hang from a low tree branch, still dripping in the early morning sunlight. I incant my robe’s fastenings and snatch up my satchel as I run back to camp as fast as my legs will carry me, feeling a blush creep all the way down to my toes.

Wynn shakes her head at my dishevelment. “I tried to warn you that Alistair was up even before you this morning, and had gone to the stream to bathe.” 

“I only saw his clothing,” I tell her, all but stumbling over my words, “I never saw him. I hope he did not see anything untoward either.”

Wynn laughs softly at my predicament and tells me to warm myself at the fire for a while before tearing down my campsite, and that she will go to check on Alistair if he does not return before I am dry.

The blushing eventually does subside, and Alistair emerges from the thinning mists not long after I leave the fireside to tear down my tent. I hear the muffled tones of his conversation with Wynn as he returns to the fireside, but I cannot make out words. I busy myself instead with tearing down my camp, and waking the rest of our companions to begin our day’s journey onward through the Brecilian forest.

I manage to studiously avoid Alistair for the whole of the day, as my blush resurges every time I hear his voice or hear the unmistakable sounds of his armored body. I find myself both hoping and dreading that he saw me as I bathed this morning, and I venture ahead with Wynn, Leliana, and Morrigan as much as possible throughout the day, finding their light-hearted teasing easier to bear than even the thought of Alistair’s unknown reaction.

About mid-day, the four ladies of my little band are scouting well ahead of our men with the carts, when a frazzled and frightened woman rushes up to us. She begs us help, her caravan is being overrun by bandits, and with no thought for the practicality of bringing all the men with us, I rush after, bidding the other ladies to come.

We venture off of the King’s road, through a small, narrow, rocky pass, following the sprinting woman. Just as Leliana clears the pass, a tree larger than any that grow on the banks of Lake Calenhad falls across the narrow passage behind us. The woman who lured us turns around in the path ahead and grins maliciously. “I’m sorry, Morrigan,” I call to my companion as the woman is joined by several very well-armed men who seem quite capable of deadly force. “I appear to have started thinking like a man.”

“At least you recognize your folly,” she calls back, even as she begins to cast the magics to change her form into something much more rugged and durable. Immediately to the bait-woman’s right steps up one of the most beautiful and deadly-looking creatures I have ever had the pleasure to look upon. He is an elf with skin the color of tea, and hair whiter than the finest cream. The look he gives me as he unsheathes his blades unsettles me. It is as though he is promising me untold pleasures instead of threatening my life. “The Warden dies here,” he purrs throatily in the warm accents of Antiva, gesturing his deadly band to attack.

The bait-woman herself receives a staff from the dark elf, and begins a complicated casting. I recognize some of the gestures, and in reactionary terror, I stretch out and out with my own will, straining myself to wrap her in the crushing prison before she can complete the incredibly deadly crafting of fire and air she weaves.

With no small satisfaction, I feel her weave sever as she begins to howl in agony, the sounds in-turn unnerving the men about her. The elf is obviously the next greatest threat, and I wrap him in my shields of spirit even as Morrigan springs forward on eight legs to overwhelm the archer to the bait-woman’s left who had just aimed his arrow at the center of my chest. Wynn shakes the ground beneath our attackers, disrupting their ability to take aim and draw bows, while Leliana fires into the crowd of would-be assassins upon the road before us.

Shouts to either side alert me to the presence of archers on rises to either side of the road just in time to pull Wynn out of the way and prevent her being pin-cushioned with arrows. I rapidly weave my deadly catalyst into the essence of the middle archer on the right side of the path, turning immediately to repeat on the left as Morrigan nimbly dodges arrows upon the path itself, lashing out with legs and mandibles to maim opponents as she springs from target to target. Wynn stretches out with her own will to harden Morrigan’s carapace, while I reshape Morrigan’s own essence to keen the edges of her fangs and feet.

The explosions on either side of the path shake Wynn and I off our feet. Leliana and Morrigan duck beneath rocky outcrops in order not to be pelted with high-velocity bone shards. The phalanxes of archers and few remaining swordsmen on the path have no time to find such cover. Absolute stillness falls as Wynn unravels her weave shaking the ground. Very little remains of any of the bodies of our attackers, with the exception of the elf, who is groaning and trying to regain his feet as my companions and I surround him, Morrigan regaining her human form as she approaches.

“I rather thought I would wake up dead,” he groans, blinking his eyes and gazing at the four women who have just proved more deadly than his thirteen companions, “or not wake up at all as the case may be. But I see you haven’t killed me yet.”  
“Perhaps I decided to keep you around to torture a bit first,” I say as menacingly as I can, still blistering at having so easily been lured into a trap.

“Oh?” the elf purrs at my feet, “so you kept me around to have a little fun did you?” He has the audacity to grin saucily up at me, completely flustering my scowl. “But the purpose of torture is usually to interrogate, yes?”

I nod silently, feeling more curiosity now than embarrassment or anger.

“In that case, despite the potential for fun, perhaps I’ll save you a bit of time and get right to the point.”

I can feel a grin yanking at the edges of my scowl, but I master my expression and do my best to mirror Morrigan’s deadly glare.

“My name is Zevran,” he introduces himself, winking up at me as he adds, “Zev to my friends.” He crawls to a seated position as he continues. “I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens, which I have failed at, sadly.”

“I’m rather happy you failed,” I say, returning my staff to its place in my battle harness, and crossing my arms against the assassin’s lurid gaze.

“I would be happy too, were I in your shoes,” he continues blithely, “for me, however, it sets a rather poor precedent, doesn’t it? Getting captured by a target seems a tad detrimental to one’s budding assassin career.”

“Too bad for you then,” I quip, my scowl faltering into a grin. I mentally kick myself for having so deeply adopted Alistair’s laugh-in-the-face-of-danger attitude.

“Yes, it’s true,” the elf sighs comically, “too bad for me.” He ends the agreement with a knowing smile and another gaze filled with lust and promises. 

I have immense difficulty regaining my scowl as I ask, “and who hired you to kill me?” I try to make my voice as hard and heartless as Morrigan’s can be, but I my shortfall is confirmed by a smoldering grin from my prisoner.

“A rather taciturn fellow in the Capital,” he replies with suave sensuality, “Loghain I think his name was, yes, that’s it.”  
At the mention of the Teyrn’s name, I need no longer fight to bring my scowl. Coldness runs down my spine, and comes out in every word as I demand answers the assassin is impressively willing to give, at least as far as his knowledge and conjecture can go.

When I have no more questions, he volunteers the information that his life is forfeit within the Crows for failure in his contract, if, however, I am willing to spare him, he would pledge his service to me instead. I look to my companions. Morrigan glares at the elf, and Leliana smiles. Wynn assesses and calculates the potential risks and rewards. 

“And just what would keep you from finishing the original contract later?” I ask into the silence.

The elf, Zevran, explains that he was never given a choice about becoming an assassin, he was purchased on the slave market for the purpose as a small child, and raised brutally to it. Leliana mutters shocked and saddened words at the revelation. Wynn tilts her head and assesses more thoroughly. I motion for Zevran to continue, feeling my heart thaw a little toward him. He continues with joy in his tone and no small amount of flattery. His explanation boils down to the simple fact that I am too tough to kill, and therefore he would only be safe from reprisal for his failure if he remains my recruit. As he did plan and execute an ambush that may very well have taken out any group of travelers not including three mages, I can see the benefit of his presence in our little band. I can also consider the benefit of an assassin in planning protection from assassins, and so I agree.

“I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you,” Zevran says as I help him to his feet, “until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation, this I swear.”

Accepting his oath, I assign him the task of retrieving every last coin and usable item remaining on the downed caravan that he set up as his ambush while the other ladies and I figure out how to remove the tree. He scampers off readily, and Morrigan has choice words about my soft heart likely to get us all killed. Leliana reminds her and myself that everyone deserves a second chance. Wynn says nothing about the elf, preferring to bring our attention back to the roadblock at hand. I reach out with my will, attempting to feel for any living essence left within the tree. Surprisingly, there is, and so I call to everyone to take cover under the upturned wagons and set the catalyst spell deep within the heart of the tree just where it crosses the path. Feeling it start to work, I feed it more and more energy, wrapping myself in my shields at the last moment. With a sky-splitting boom, the center of the tree blows apart, splinters flying in every direction, and the two portions of remaining tree roll away to either side of the pass.

As the splinters stop falling, I dismiss my shields and rub my hands as if dusting them off, grinning impishly as I call the all-clear to my companions. Zevran looks at me wide-eyed and humble before bowing respectfully and rushing to continue his assigned scavenging.

Feeling faint after this last exertion, I sit, attempting to pass the action off as boredom for Zevran’s slow pace. Just as Zevran is finishing the looting, I hear the unmistakable hoofbeats and creak of our supply wagon. Alistiar is driving, white-faced and worried, and Sten all but leaps off the wagon, blade ready, as Alistair wends their way carefully down the narrow path.  
“You are just in time, gentlemen,” I call out, smiling and deciding not to rise. “We have finished the messy part, but we need a hand with the heavy lifting.”

Sten surveys the carnage and makes a warding gesture in my direction before stalking over to help Zevran load the scavenged goods onto our cart as Alistair finally brings it to a halt, vaulting off and rushing to my side.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say softly, smiling, “thwarting assassins is no fun without you.” 

“Assassins?” Alistair asks, stopping in shock and assessing the devastation about us on the road.

“Loghain contracted them all the way from Antiva to kill Grey Wardens.” I say with a nonchalant wave of the hand. “I would apologize for leaving Logain’s men alive at Lothering, except the contract on our lives has gained us an assassin of our very own to help us avoid future ambushes.” I say the last with a bitter, mirthless smile, letting my fatigue show on my face for just a moment.

“Are you injured, my love?” Alistair asks softly as he closes the distance between us, gently holding my shoulders as he looks into my eyes.

“No,” I whisper, my eyes hungrily devouring his face, his soft smile, “my love.” My heart soars as I savor the words on my tongue. He leans down, and rests his forehead on mine for a moment. “But I am ravenous,” I add after a few deep, steadying breaths, “so you had best feed me lest I forget myself and start kissing you in front of everyone.”

Alistair chuckles wryly, then glances toward Morrigan and shudders. “Good point,” he concedes, turning to fetch food from the wagon. I stay where I am seated, my knees feeling too weak to move for the time being. The Freddicks’ wagon wends its way down behind ours on the path, and Bodhan and Sandal hop off to do a more thorough scavenge of the erstwhile ambush site.

Alistair returns with several sausages, a large wedge of cheese, and some oatcakes that had been fresh only this morning. He sits upon the rock next to me as I tear into the food. After a long silence he reaches into a pouch on his belt and pulls out the rumpled and folded parchment bearing my name. I pause in my chewing and look at him, swallowing hard.

“I read it,” he says, smoothing it against his gauntlet before presenting it for me to take.

“And?” I ask softly, as I stare at the parchment. I reach out and retrieve it slowly from his grasp, almost fearful of touching it again.

Alistair heaves a large sigh, removing his gauntlets to place a bare hand upon my cheek, bringing my eyes to his. “Jealous I may be,” he tells me softly, “but I cannot fault you for bringing a measure of happiness into my half-brother’s life before he died. Nor can I fault him for loving you, it’s quite impossible not to.”

I press my cheek into Alistair’s palm, feeling my heart warm and blossom. “You are every bit as impossible as I am,” I say affectionately, wanting to touch him but having no place to put the food still clutched in one hand or the letter in the other.  
Fortunate or no, my stomach breaks the spell of the moment, growling loudly at the small amount it has been offered since waking this morning. I blush and groan with embarrassment. Alistair laughs softly, and releases my cheek.

“Just how long will I be constantly ravenous?” I ask before tucking the letter into my robes and tearing back into the sausages.

“It was about three months for me to go from constantly to intermittently ravenous,” Alistair tells me gently, “but it varies from Warden to Warden.”

“In that case,” I say between bites, “I’m glad we’re headed toward Denerim. I’m quite certain that we will need the food supplies of a large trade port to keep me on my feet. 

“Fair enough,” Alistair says to me, “but I don’t think we will be able to get the wagons back up the path that got us down here. We’re going to need an alternate route through the forest back to the King’s Road.

“With any luck,” I say, polishing off the cheese, “we will find a Dalish caravan to present the treaty to, and enlist their aid in getting back out of the forest.”

“You are such an incurable optimist” Alistair says with a grin, tucking a strand of my ever-lengthening raven hair behind my ear.

“Well the Maker is on our side,” I say, swallowing the last of the sausage. 

“So Leliana says,” Alistair counters, looking critically at me.

With a hand now free, I reach up and stroke Alistair’s cheek gently, looking longingly and lovingly into his golden eyes. “My magical gifts awoke at the age of four to save a child, and I thwarted my first assassination at the age of six,” I whisper, holding up fingers to enumerate my arguments, “despite betrayal and defeat at Ostagar, we survive to set the world back to rights, plus the man I love has just forgiven a past that would separate us. How can I not start to believe her?”

“Good points,” Alistair says breathily as he presses a quick kiss to my lips. “We do need to get back to what we are doing, though, lest I forget we have a Blight to stop and a kingdom to restore.”

“All work and no play,” I grumble as I pop the last of the oatcake in my mouth and wash it down with a flask of water from my satchel.

Alistiar grins, pulling his gauntlets back on and offers a hand to help me off my rock. “Oh, I am quite thrilling enough to keep you interested, my lady,” he says, even as he blushes at his own innuendo.

“Flirt,” I call him affectionately as I press a kiss to his cheek and rush to help load the last of the new supplies on our wagon, feeling much better after the food.


	18. Into the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan to implement the second treaty hits a bit of a snag.

For the next several days, it is nearly impossible to tell day from night under the Brecilian Forest’s dense canopy. Myriad species of tree and flower glow of their own accord, and there are ever present mists within the soft gloom. I ride upon the rear of the supply wagon at all times in a trance-like state, keeping my net of senses wide to ensure we are not moving in circles, nor stumbling into danger. My other companions keep close to the wagons, even the gregarious Bodhan Freddick and our talkative new assassin, Zevran travel in tight-lipped anticipation of the unknown. Strange birdcalls echo through the sunless and moonless gloom. It is only to rest the horses and allow me brief stints to relieve myself and receive treatment from Wynn that we stop. We make no camps. My companions all sleep upon the moving wagons in turn. I do not sleep at all. I feel as though we are constantly watched, and more than once I steer us away from massive, malevolent presences that I do not understand. 

Leliana’s skill at the hunt, and Morrigan and Wynn’s impressive control of elements mean we do not lack for fresh, hot food prepared on the hoof, and more often during our brief stops to rest the horses. On one of these stops, I am just standing to stretch my body before allowing myself a brief rest when I feel the press of hunger and curiosity upon my senses. I motion everyone to silence and readiness, casting out my senses through the earth and the trees, to the birds and beasts of the forest. I see them this way in plenty of time to quietly warn my companions to circle the wagons, blind and hobble the horses, and ready themselves for wolves.

The pack circles and circles, sniffing our scents hungrily and calling to one another in guttural growls. I keep my eyes closed, reaching out with my will and my senses, identifying the beasts. I try to obtain an accurate count for my companions, who stand with their backs to the horses, bows and crossbows readied with blades to hand if the wolves charge. Twelve, a full dozen wild wolves with a presence akin to a mabari hound, only more cunning and each holding more hunger than the entire maddened kennel at Redcliffe had. I whisper the count to my companions, then pause, feeling something more beyond the circling wolves. There is curiosity, intellect, and an undying, barely mastered rage. As I reach, it withdraws, as though it can feel my scrutiny and does not wish to be touched, to be known.

The wolves who are only wolves howl as one. Morrigan whispers an incantation, and the horses who were preparing to panic stand calmly as though sleeping. Bodhan and Sandal stand between them, also appearing to sleep. I will shield them as the wolves come if I am able and it is needed. I salute Morrigan for her quick thinking, and point out positions within the mists and gloom for my companions to fire. 

Leliana nods to me, complete faith and trust in her eyes. She draws and looses where I have pointed just as Alistair pulls the release on his crossbow. Twin yelps echo, and ten voices raise howls of outrage and challenge. “They Charge!” I call to my companions, pointing out the directions as fast as I am able. Zevran looses an arrow into the mist, then drops his bow in favor of daggers. Sten holds, waiting with inhuman patience. Leliana draws, looses, and pulls another arrow from her quiver as the first of the grey-black, furred beasts launches itself from the mists. A fist of pure stone forms and launches itself from the ground, smashing into the ribcage of the airborne wolf, silencing its howl and sending it sprawling sideways back into the mists.

A second beast emerges low, skulking from the mists near Sten. With barely notable movement, Sten adjusts his aim, and the readied bolt flies straight into the beast’s eye. As though somehow coordinated, a huge, pale-furred body leaps upon Alistair, as a second and darker grey wolf throws itself at Zevran, trailing blood from an arrow sunk in its haunches. Alistair brings his shield up in time to protect his face from the great, gaping maw of the wolf, but its sheer bulk knocks him on his back. Without conscious thought, I weave the beast’s spirit back on itself, forgetting for a moment to keep watch on the other approaching dangers. The agonized yelp and enraged snarl at my elbow draws my mind back to the rest of the fray. Black furred jaws open to snap at my leg, and I sweep my staff into the open maw, pushing through the swing to thrust the surprised beast away. As it shakes its head and trains its pale eyes back on me, Alistair barrels into its side, shield first, driving down through its chest with his blade as it falls aside. A frightened howl is joined by three others as I re-engage my senses and assess the four beasts fleeing into the mists. One bears two arrows in its shoulder and is not likely to long survive. The sound of the agonized whimpers of the beast still struggling within my hastily woven prison are likely to haunt my waking hours for a long time. I unravel the weave, letting the pitiful creature drop brokenly to the ground. “Zevran,” I call, “please grant that one some mercy.” The elf nods to me even as he lifts the beasts muzzle, plunging his dagger through its throat. 

“Please help me skin them,” I say to my panting companions, “Those hides will fetch an incredible price if we can get them to Denerim.” My companions nod their heads wearily, and all of us take long pulls from waterskins before setting to the task of skinning wolves. 

Morrigan is by far the fastest and most skilled at the task, but Zevran is surprisingly adept as well. I opt to scrape the hides after they are removed from the beasts, as my hands actually tremble when I try to put the blade to open the skin of the beast I bashed in the jaws while still alive. Morrigan shakes her head at me and laughs softly at my weakness. I shrug and smile back as I deftly and precisely scrape the gore from the inside of the skins Morrigan sets upon the trail. The dwarves and horses awake from slumber at some point during our tanning of the hides. Bodhan gathers the teeth and claws from the beasts, which I do not mind, as I know they do fetch a price, but the thought of dismembering the wolves for them is simply revolting to me. 

In fairly short order, my companions and I are back on our way with eight fresh wolfpelts scraped and ready for tanning. I forego sleep, but take Wynn’s potions and let her recast the spells to help protect my unborn child. She fusses at me for not taking the time to rest, and I tell her of the presence I noted just before the wolves attacked, explaining that leaving us unwatched risks more than just my child. She nods sadly, understanding, and insists that I add at some daily elfroot tea to what we are already doing. I acquiesce with a groan.

The horses are slowing with fatigue some time later, and my own ability to continue concentrating on my survey of our surroundings is beginning to falter when I feel the unmistakable presence of elves. I signal a stop in the middle of the road. I stand with some assistance from Alistair, and step down from the wagon. I allow Alistair to guide me in front of the horses as I reach out with my senses to feel and count. I feel no fewer than twenty different essences arranged within the trees surrounding us. Most are curious, but a few radiate anger and Hostility. I lift my face as though looking into the trees about us and call out “Andaran atish’an, var falon-ghilana,” suddenly deeply pleased that more than one of the elves in the Tower had been deeply curious about their lost language and happy to include me in the deep delving of the archives.   
“Garas quenathra, shemlen?” A woman calls, stepping onto the path ahead with bow in hand, “and how have you come by the language of the Elvhenan?”

“We are Grey Wardens,” I say with a gesture indicating my party, “Seeking the aid of your peoples against the Blight. I learned what little I speak of your tongue in the company of the elves of Ferelden’s Circle of mages, many of them my friends.”  
An enraged voice calls out from the trees to the side of the path, “Ma harel, da’era!” 

“I do not,” I reply, seeking the essence who called out the insult so that I may train my eyes directly upon his position, “and as I come in peace I will ignore your insult.” I turn my gaze back to the hunter who is obviously in charge of the small band. “Please,” I say to her as graciously as I can in my fatigued state, “we would speak with your Keeper.”

“Ma nuvenin, Warden,” she says to me with a nod, giving me honor, “you and yours will follow me.”

“Ma serannas, hunter,” I reply, inclining my own head to give the same honor, and leaning on Alistair to guide me forward while I keep my net of senses thrown as wide as I am able while walking.

I feel the camp before any of my companions see it. The wards built into the Aravels and fed with the intent and energy of countless generations of powerful mages practically burn against the edges of my consciousness. Between and around them, the elves move quickly and surely. There is an overriding aura of worry and fear about the place. I can feel much injury and anger within the encampment, but as the outrunners guiding us reach the camp, threads of mingled hope and distrust begin to wind through the mélange of emotion.

I pull back into myself as we top a rise and enter a clearing where the Aravels should start to become visible. The land-ships were large in my senses, but I am still unprepared for their bulk when I lay eyes upon them. The greatest of trade caravans upon the roads of Ferelden are not so large. The wheels alone of some stand as tall as my shoulder, and great domes of cloth curve up from the beds, creating mobile buildings the size of small inns. Smaller tents are set within the circle of the great wagons, and a single, smaller covered wagon, much the size of our own supply wagon, is parked within the center of the circled Aravels. The clearing these Aravels park within is at least as large as Lothering was, and for the first time in I am unsure how long, I can finally see sky above center of the camp. It is blue sky with pink and amber streaking up from one horizon. As my sense of direction has been warped by the endless gloom of the forest, I am unsure whether the sky heralds sunrise or sunset.

“Andaran atish’an, Keeper,” our guide says respectfully to the gaunt, bald, robed man who steps from the center wagon upon her approach. “These are Grey Wardens who have come to speak to you about the Blight.”

“Thank you, da’len, you have done well,” The keeper says, dismissing the hunter. He is tall for an elf, nearing Alistair’s height. He is also lean to the point of skeletal with great, dark circles beneath his eyes and a pinched, worried face. I can feel the aura of his power without even extending my own sense to try. There is something vaguely familiar about it, as if I have encountered it before, but cannot place when or where.

“Andaran atish’an, Grey Wardens,” the keeper greets us with a respectful bow. 

“Andaran atish’an, Keeper,” I return with a slightly deeper bow, motioning for all with me to do the same.

“I am Zathrian,” the Keeper introduces himself, “Keeper of this clan, and I know the treaties of which you speak.”

“I am Tethys,” I introduce myself in return, “this is Alistair, and we are the last of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden so far as we know. We have come to seek your people’s aid against the blight that threatens us all.”

“I would gladly aid in this fight,” Zathrian tells me with a tone of regret, “however my people are currently unable to keep our agreement.”

I cock my head to the side and place a hand gently on Alistair’s wrist as he stiffens, readying for an indignant remark. Zathrian motions to us to follow, and in turn, I motion to our companions to stay just where they are, following only with Alistair as company. Zathrian begins to explain that among the other denizens of the forest, a pack of cursed beasts, half-man and half wolf, have laid siege to his clan. Many are wounded and ill, many more lost in ambush and battle.   
“Ir abelas,” I say with deep empathy, looking over the open-air infirmary. From across a green the size of Lothering’s chantry, the pain and suffering of the men and women upon the cots is a palpable thing.

Zathrian bows, slightly deeper and with more respect this time. “My hunters mentioned you understood more of our tongue than they expected.”

“Elves were my equals and friends within the Circle,” I explain, “and as I was always the youngest and smallest apprentice in my level, the elves were the least likely to underestimate me and most likely to include me in their studies and games. We undertook quite a few for knowledge about your lost civilization in the darkest recesses of the libraries. There was much conjecture in the oldest of the Tevinter writings, but only trace snippets of the language itself. We spoke it as often as we could, a code most of our elders did not understand. I could never truly know what it was to be one of the Elvhen, but as we were all equally prisoners within the Tower, subject to the whims of Templar justice, I could at least know empathy for those subjugated because they are feared.”

“You are…” Zathrian looks at me strangely, and I sense from him many, tangled emotions, “…not at all what I expect in a human.” He shakes his head and walks us back to his small aravel. “I have forbidden my hunters to go into the forest, and at this time we prepare to move as soon as the wounded are able, thus we are unable to aid you now, unless you would be willing to aid us first?”

I look to Alistair questioningly.

“Every life spared from other dangers is one more to throw against the darkspawn were your words, if I recall,” Alistair tells me with a determined stare. “The Dalish are under no less threat than crofters and citizens of the realm. They deserve no less help.”

“Well then,” I say with a smile and a squeeze of Alistair’s arm, “it’s unanimous, what can the Wardens and the son of Maric Theirin do to aid your people, Keeper?”

Zathrian explains that the curse of the beasts is tied to a great white wolf called Witherfang. To affect a cure for the injured and suffering, we must hunt the wolf and return with its heart to the Keeper. He seems earnest enough, but there is something in his manner that suggests to me he is keeping something back.

“Very well,” I say to Keeper Zathrian, fighting the urge to give voice to my accusation of his withholding information, after all I am tired and I have been spending entirely too much time with Morrigan. “I will take a small group of my people to hunt this Witherfang,” I tell him after only the slightest pause to get my impulses under control. “May we ask the hospitality of your caravan for those I do not take? I will promise their aid to you in any capacity they are able to provide.”

Zathrian accepts, bowing respectfully, and I return the bow. I direct my companions to find the master of the camp and get the carts situated and camp set within the security of the circled aravels. “I am dead upon my feet and must rest,” I tell them, “prepare rations and emergency supplies for three days for a venture party of four. I will select three of you to accompany me upon my waking.”

Wynn opens her mouth to object, and I override her, saying “not you, Wynn, there are many injured within this camp and your skill will be needed most here.” She glares at me, but nods her assent. Alistair assists me in pitching my tent before I crawl in and collapse into complete unconsciousness.

When I rise from my tent, a beautifully ordered camp has sprung up around me. Bodhan is excitedly negotiating trade of exotic dwarven-made items for Dalish goods. Leliana rushes up to me, eyes bright and cheeks beautifully flushed. “I have convinced several leatherworking apprentices to tan our wolf pelts. Good practice for them since there are no new skins coming in from the hunters, no?” 

“Excellent work!” I praise her efforts, grasping her shoulders in both my hands and grinning ear to ear, “after all now they’ll be worth double since we can honestly explain their exotic, Dalish origin.” 

Leiliana’s trilling giggle of agreement is so musical that several of the young elven men nearby stop and sigh in appreciation. I’m about to ask Leliana to help me prepare for the journey today when I am drawn up short by a hard, raised voices and the palpable sensation of gathering magic. 

“Wynn and Morrigan have been all but hissing like two strange cats at one another over the set-up and use of potion-making apparatus to restock our collection of healing potions and salves,” Leliana whispers to me as we hurry toward the pair of very powerful and very angry women. “Morrigan wants, as well to begin to distill the lyrium spirits for extending your usefulness in battle, while Wynn is adamant that it is unsafe to do so outside the tower.” 

The report of that confirms for me that I cannot leave the two of them together and hope to keep both of them alive, and I break into a run, letting my open senses direct me to where my fellow mages are gathering power as if to channel.   
“I do not care how it is done in your chantry prison, old woman, we are not in your Circle now!” Morrigan’s voice, sharp and biting, carries through the whole of the clearing. I wince at the insult and groan inwardly at the contempt written in Morrigan’s sneer. No, never alone together as long as I draw breath…

Wynn squares her shoulders and stands to her full height. She turns her piercing blue gaze fully on Morrigan, smacking the butt of her staff upon the ground as though preparing to lecture a particularly recalcitrant neophyte. “Common sense in not specific to one’s locale, apostate,” the Senior Enchanter begins in a calm, reasonable tone that completely belies the waves of rage pouring from her and the white-knuckled grip on her staff.

Remembering the weave I used to tear the emissary’s walking corpses from his control at Ostagar, only days ago, as well as the feel of Cullen’s all too frequent demonstrations of silencing my own abilities, I rapidly weave a modified version of the two. Centering it between my companions, I push into being a blast of pure will that silences and inactivates all magic within a several yard radius.

Even as both women stagger back in shocked horror, I stalk between them. I pitch my voice to carry no farther than their ears, but that just reinforces the tremor of outrage “Have you both taken leave of your senses?” I ask rhetorically, “or do you just delight in making all of Thedas unsafe for mages and Grey Wardens alike?” I take a slow breath, quelling any rejoinders from my companion with what I know to be a steel-hard violet glare, then continue in an almost cajoling tone. “I have a price on my head, and an impossible task to accomplish. How am I to convince disparate peoples and powers to unite against a common foe when I am unable even to take a normal day’s rest without my very inner-circle of confidants resorting to duels to see who has the longer staff and wider stubborn streak?” 

I gaze to each silent, motionless woman and say as gently as I am able, “I don’t ask you to like one another. I don’t ask you to trust one another. I don’t even ask you to respect one another,” I pause here, noting that both of my companions have their heads cocked to the side, assessing me now as much as each other, “but, if you cannot figure out how to work with one another, you are both welcome to leave now and attempt to complete the personal agendas that brought you to my side on your own.” 

I let my shoulders drop wearily and my abject exhaustion be fully visible as I turn from one woman to the other, continuing softly “None of us have the luxury of time or resource to have our own way. A Blight is upon us and I need both of you to combat it, but only if you are working with me and not against each other.”

I turn on my heel, gathering my robes to stalk away, but pause for one final comment. “I anticipate a few more moments before your ability to channel returns. Please take the time to decide if you want to continue in my company. If you do, make your peace with one another and meet me at my tent in one hour.” I do not look at either as I say it, neither do I look back.   
When I find him brooding by the Dalish clanfire, Sten seems even more disgruntled by the elves than he was by the society of Lothering, and I determine that I definitely cannot leave him here and risk him potentially slaughtering these potential allies. Zevran, also at the fireside, seems to have made a relatively good impression. I watch him for a time, trading wild tales of misadventure with several of the young hunters. I also catch more than one smoldering glance shared between my new assassin and several of the young hunters. With a groan of frustration I search the faces of the rest of the clan at fireside and aravel, counting the glares of mothers and potential rivals. It takes me less than the full telling of a single misadventure to determine that he is also too much of a risk to leave here without a very stern chaperone. 

As Zevran finishes his tale with a flourish and the assembled hunters roll in the dirt laughing, I suppress my own chuckle and motion to him to come. He saunters to me lazily, well prowls really, like a feral predator assessing whether I am prey or a potential mate. I stifle my urge to roll my eyes, hearing Justine’s never-ending litany from my childhood “Control, Tethys, like the calm of deep water. Temper, passion, even mirth at the wrong moment can be all the justification needed to sentence an apprentice to Tranquility and a mage to death. Feel it, know it, but only express it when you know you are safe.”

I’d completely forgotten those words in the turmoil of the last month since the day of my conscription. I place a hand surreptitiously over my belly, reminding myself that I should not forget the words again, two lives might now depend on them.

Zevran prowls into range that I figure his ears, more sensitive in his race than mine, will hear a soft summons, I speak. “Zevran, Sten, you will both be going with me into the forest. Gather all you will need and have not already prepared, and be ready in one hour.” 

I turn and pick my way swiftly toward the only other source of darkspawn taint I can feel other than myself in the general area, waiting only long enough for the briefest of nods to confirm my companions’ intent to comply. 

Despite my longing to spend every moment in Alistair’s company, I know he will do the most good for our cause by remaining here and learning more of the nature of our intended allies. Not to mention the journals he needs to read through. I find my young prince standing at a delicate fence made of saplings and vine near the edge of the clearing. He is trying to coax over one of the halla penned inside with a handful of tender shoots he has obviously unearthed painstakingly with his hands from the dirt crusting his bare fingers. I stop and watch from a distance as the halla shifts her narrow head to first one side, then the other, assessing my companion with wide, intelligent eyes. Her delicate nostrils flare wide, scenting for any danger. I hold completely still, not even daring to breathe as the halla takes two steps forward and delicately nips the shoots out of Alistair’s hand, dancing backwards a moment later to chew them thoughtfully. The unrestrainedly triumphant grin on my fellow Warden’s face is so like Cailan’s that I must look away. I can almost hear the mocking laugh of the Archdemon locked away in its soul-cage, The knowledge that, like any other demon, it would sense my internal conflict as weakness and try to overthrow me in my own hours of sleep straightens my spine and chases the fine prickle of unshed tears from my eyes.  
After two deep, steadying breaths, I look back at my companion who is now feeding the halla with one hand while stroking her soft nose with the other. The soft smile playing about his lips is one all his own, and I feel a similar one spread across my own face. I sigh and lean against a small tree, reveling in the moment of peace. Alas my nearly-silent sigh is enough to startle the rightfully skittish halla, and she dances away again. 

Alistair turns my way with the beginnings of a threatening scowl, but his face relaxes on meeting my apologetic gaze. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say as gently as I can, “it was just so beautiful I couldn’t suppress the sigh.”

“It’s alright,” he says with a shy smile and a blush staining the tips of his ears, “she is a pretty remarkable creature. They’re smart you know, almost on level with mabari and people.” 

“Almost inconceivably swift too, “I add, moving forward to sit for a moment at my companion’s side, “else they would never survive in this dangerous world, even with the Dalish to protect them.”

Alistair wraps an arm around my shoulders and lets me lean my head against his chest. “You know, they taught me in the Chantry that the halla have an unnatural bond with the Dalish, and that elven apostates in the clans keep them as familiars.” Alistair ends with a rueful laugh and a shake of his head.

“The tomes of beastlore in the Tower archives say that they imprint on a clan like mabari do with individuals,” I correct with a smile, enjoying the simple closeness that I’ll not have again for days.

“I like your explanation better,” he sighs, letting his hand stroke my shoulder gently, as if savoring the proximity himself. 

“You’ll have a few days to test my theory,” I tell him regretfully after enjoying the moment a little longer than I should.

“What do you mean?” He asks suspiciously, his arm tightening possessively around me rather than pushing me away.

I extricate myself and turn to face my companion, knowing I will see disappointment in his eyes, but determined to get through the next statement nonetheless. “I need you here,” I tell him, “You’re the one that these people will follow into battle against the darkspawn if we can untangle the current snag.”

“I love how you put things,” he tells me with a mirthless grin, “battling an untold number of werewolves to end a centuries old curse is a snag. What is the Blight, and inconvenience?”

“No,” I say with a sad sigh, “the Blight is a Blight, and all other issues pale in comparison to that threat, even the issue of how much I want to never leave your side, even for a moment, despite knowing you are the only one I can trust to remain here with the Dalish and represent the Wardens appropriately.”

“I… uh…” Alistair stammers, trying to find an argument, but ending up lost in the intensity of my gaze instead. 

I barely register the tug on my hands before I pitch over forward and strong arms wrap me in an embrace. Soft lips press to my own, gently but uncompromisingly, and in the space of a breath I am kissing my fellow Warden with wild abandon, my need to go protect the bright and beautiful things of the world momentarily forgotten. I run my fingers through his fine, unruly hair and revel in the rasp as I guide them over his scruffy cheeks. I am just starting to search out the buckles on his plate armor when he breaks the kiss.

I moan in frustrated longing, gripping the edges of his breastplate, and I pant heavily, trying to refill lungs starved of air. I keep my eyes closed tightly not ready to show my gentle companion the naked raging desire burning in my gaze.

“Tethys,” he whispers, leaning his forehead gently against mine.

“Yes, my love?” I ask, finally opening my eyes.

“Come back to me.” It’s every bit as much command as plea, “I know I’m not… I can’t command you out of danger… or demand to go with you… but I won’t be able to sleep for worry when I’m not beside you.”

“Wynn and Leliana will be happy not to have assigned watches,” I tease gently.

“Not Morrigan?” He asks with wide-eyed hope.

“No,” I say, laying a soothing hand upon his rough cheek, “I’ll take her to throw at the most dangerous things, if she’s still with us when I get back to the tents.”

“That’s not fair,” Alistair pouts playfully, “now I don’t know whether to wish that she’s gone, or still here so she can be your werewolf fodder.”

I laugh, rolling out of his arms and to my feet. “You don’t like her much, do you?” I ask. 

His rejoinder about her being mean, and conniving, sneaky, and mean has me giggling all the way back to the tents.

Leliana has had ample time to unruffled any feathers of my two chagrined mages when I return to our encampment. Sten and Zevran are busy making last-minute trades for improved weapons and aromor. 

I gather Wynn and Morrigan to me with a quick, gesture, sending Alistair to speak with Leliana about strategy for our campaign to unite Ferelden. Both mages come when beckoned, and I launch into my request that Wynn teach Morrigan and I the basics of battlefield healing before either can even take a second to reflect on our earlier encounter. We practice the most basic weave until Zevran and Sten return and report readiness to leave. Morrigan has mastered the weave and deftly wills closed a small scrape on my hand that I hadn’t even noticed. 

“That settles it,” I say, “Morrigan is going with me into the forest. Wynn, will you be so kind as to keep Alistair, Leliana, and the Freddicks out of trouble while I’m away?”

Morrigan rolls her eyes and Wynn smiles gently.

Only moments after my announcement, I turn back at the edge of the clearing to spare one more longing glance at my fellow warden, then square my shoulders and disappear once more into the perpetual twilight under the dense canopy.


	19. Farther Into the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes venture into the forest in attempt to break the lycanthropic curse preventing the Dalish elves from honoring their treaty.

“Ah, more forest,” Morrigan says in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “and here I thought we left the Wilds for good.”

“Trust me,” I tell her with gentle amusement, “in about a month’s time you will have only the fondest memories of the simple pleasures of clean, forest air, simple, straight-forward objectives, and uncomplicated companions to share them with.”  
“I think you mistake me for yourself, Warden,” she cuts her unnaturally yellow eyes at me with a discontented snort, “but I will take your wager and in a month we shall see.”

I catch her smile from the corner of my eye as I turn my head to make sure the men are following closely. Sten is looking everywhere but straight ahead, wonder and excitement painted in the depts. Of his eyes even if it doesn’t reach his impassive face. Zevran’s hands seem to be constantly twitching and rechecking the placement of what I know to be a half-dozen daggers hidden about his person. He watches the shadows as though expecting untold threats to appear out of each one. I open my mouth to chide him, then think better of it, after all he has a much better sense of ambush potential than I would. 

I am still trying to think of a topic to break our mutual silence when I get the sudden sensation of being watched by hungry eyes. I reach to the side and still Morrigan’s pace without looking to her, then feel along my connection to the weave of living energy to identify the threat. The forest around us goes unnaturally silent as birds and prey-beasts stop their songs and movements, waiting for some great predator to pass. I feel the corruption within the forest even before I can hear or see the approach of the beasts. 

I hold up 4 fingers to my companions, then point out the directions by which they are converging upon us. “Creatures,” I whisper, “corrupted by the Blight, but not quite darkspawn.” 

We all reel slightly at the stench of decay and pure wrongness that assaults our nose moments later. Zevran melts into the shadows just behind me and off the path, while Sten draws a blade nearly as tall as me and takes a step in front of me. Morrigan begins chanting softly in a strange, twisted tongue. I wait, watching the bushes begin to quiver at the passage of large creatures beneath them. With graceful confidence, I detach my staff from its battle harness in the moment of quiet before four great wolves burst from their cover, howling with madness and hunger. Only they are not quite wolves, their matted, mangy coats are split with festering wounds, as if the bony spikes jutting from their hides are recent mutations and the wolves aren’t entirely healed from their emergence.

The spell to turn the first blighted wolf’s blood and bone into explosive death is cast even before I can assess the creature or it can land. The sudden yelp in mid-air makes it falter and land poorly, just missing its intended prey, me. I don’t waste the opportunity, sweeping my staff beneath its forequarters and flipping it back the way it came. The flying, spiky body impacts one of the two that have attempted to leap upon Sten, unbalancing it. Sten does not look to the side to see from whence it came, he simply makes use of the advantage given, striking a crushing blow to the unbalanced wolf. We all hear its rib bones snap, even as an arrow sails over my head and through the eye of the downed wolf. 

I feel rather than see Morrigan’s casting that freezes the fourth wolf solid in front of her. I ignore that one, leaping to Sten’s vulnerable back as my target rights itself and the two wolves begin circling him, seeking weaknesses in their prey. They howl in rage and hunger, but the target of my spell is also whimpering in pain. I feel the intent of the lunge even before the unwounded creature sinks on his haunches to spring. I meet the leap in mid-air with a sweeping arc of my staff, knocking the wolf to the ground. Sten again takes advantage, and brings his sword down crushing the ribs of the downed beast As he hauls back on the blade to prepare for a new swing, I must spin to his other side and defend from the whimpering wolf. I am just in time to fill snapping jaws with the shaft of the staff, keeping them just barely from the cloth of Sten’s tunic. I let the staff fall, rather than giving the blighted wolf the opportunity to tug me off balance, then cast a shield about Sten and myself as the wolf stills, keens, and explodes in a shower of gore and bone shrapnel.

I dismiss the shield and turn in time to see Zevran leap upon the back of Morrigan’s frozen wolf, shattering it with a shortsword. I turn back to Sten in time to catch him making a gesture toward Morrigan, which I assume is meant to ward off evil from the expression in his eyes. I retrieve my staff from the puddle of wolf gore and wipe it off with the sleeve of my robe, returning it to its clip on my harness. 

“Are you well, Morrigan?” I ask.

“’Twas child’s play,” she calls back.

“And you, Zevran?” I turn to the elf with a smile.

“Will every moment with you be so enlivening?” He asks in return, a sensuous smile curving his lips.

I shake my head and turn to Sten, opening my mouth to ask his status, but he cuts me off.

“I don’t understand it,” He says with a gesticulation of frustration, “you look like a woman.”

“I am a woman, Sten,” I say, cocking my head to the side and arching my own eyebrow in confusion.

“But you are a Grey Warden,” he says, sheathing his sword and holding his head as though it pains him, “a warrior of skill and legend, so it follows that you can’t be a woman.”

“How is that?” I ask, utterly baffled by his rationale.

“Women are priests, merchants, or farmers,” he says, staring daggers at me, “they do not fight.”

“Grey Wardens will do whatever it takes to stop a Blight,” I tell him with a shrug, not quite able to keep a grin from my lips, “including recruiting women to fight. Now enough idle speculation of my gender,” I say, echoing Sten’s pointy glare exactly as I meet his eyes, “we have a magic wolf to find and a curse to break so I can get back to recruiting an army.”

“Morrigan,” I command before turning down the trail, “burn the bodies.”

Zevran tries unsuccessfully, or near disastrously depending on one’s point of view, to flirt with Morrigan. I end up asking about his life in the brothels of Antiva before the Crows bought him to keep him from more ill-fated attempts. The next several hours of walking along winding game-trails in the never-ending twilight of the deep forest are filled with the sound of his soft, sultry voice making amusing anecdotes of heart wrenching tragedy. Morrigan’s pinched, consternated features would tell me she is having to fight for control of conflicting desires to both laugh and cry even if I was not walking with my senses expanded most fully into the coursing of life and power through these woods. Sten simply gazes thoughtfully at Zevran from time to time, but I can feel his internal disquiet at the world that seems to make no sense outside his homelands. I feel a sudden surge of pain and desperation from a conscious but wounded mind, and guide my companions off our path onto another to investigate. As I turn, I feel the uncanny sense of another consciousness brushing against mine and retreating. As I feel no malice in the presence, I let it pass as we continue.

The wounded mind I sense falls unconscious before I find the gravely injured elf it belongs to. On inspection, he has lost much blood. I beg Morrigan to use the healing she has mastered to close the worst of the wounds so that the elf may survive the journey back to his camp. She is displeased by the request but complies, and I bind my cloak to our staves for a makeshift litter. Neither Sten nor Zevran seem best pleased that I turn us all back to the Dalish encampment to return the wounded man to his people, and I must remind each of them that the life I save now may be the one that saves their own in the battles to come. Regardless of whether they agree, my command is respected. We face no adversity in returning down the path we have traveled, and we do so much more swiftly than on the trip to this point. It is a matter of only a few hours to deliver the wounded elf, still living, into the hands of his clan, and I feel as though we are being watched fore and aft the whole way. 

My stomach is growling loud enough to cause my companions worry by the time we deliver the wounded elf to his people, so we travel the last few steps back to the Dalish encampment and feast on more than we carry. The fare at our own cook-fire leaves much to be desired, as Leliana and Wynn left Alistair in charge of the repast. The contents of the pot are a uniform grey color and as unappetizing as boiled shoes. “It’s fortunate you’re good with a sword,” I tell him as he joins me at the fireside, “you’d have no future as a cook.” I kiss him gently on the cheek to take any sting from the comment.

“This is traditional Ferelden rabbit stew,” he says defensively while blushing. “We ate it every day in the Templar barracks.”  
“No wonder your order hates mine,” I say with mock wonder, “they’re jealous that we get to understand flavor, texture, and color.”

Everyone laughs. After a single look at the completely unappetizing stew they pull other rations from our supplies. I finish almost the entire pot, leaving only one bowl for Alistair. I find that I don’t actually need texture, color, or flavor after all as ravenous as I am. When my belly is finally silenced, I inform all my companions that Alistair is officially forbidden to be in charge of cooking anything, since we all need to survive long enough to actually face down the Blight. Alistair readily agrees after trying his own stew. As the sky above the clearing is painted pink, crimson, and purple by the setting sun, I encourage all my companions to rest, stating that we will push out again after they have slept. No one argues or complains. Zevran, Morrigan, and Sten are all asleep around the fire within moments of my announcement.

I use their rest time to review Wynn’s progress with healing the wounded. Apparently those with werewolf bites are in excruciating pain and her only means to assist them is to keep them sedated with a concoction of elfroot, embrium, and deep mushroom. 

“I have enough of the dried herbs to keep the current patients insensible for maybe three days,” she tells me, “but after that, I will have completely exhausted the supply of elfroot and unable to resupply any of our own healing salves, or your medication.” 

I place my hand reassuringly on my elder companion’s shoulder. “I will gather more,” I tell her, “as I search the forest for the means to break the curse.” She meets my eyes wearily and nods.

Leiliana reports that she has managed to get Zathrian’s apprentice, Lanaya, has been a little more forthcoming about her own origin and the legends surrounding her mentor. Leilana tells Lanaya’s story of being taken by bandits, and the saved by Zathrian with dramatic flourish. She says in a dark undertone “Zathrian covered Lanaya’s eyes so she could not see the carnage he had wrought in the bandit camp, but she shuddered as she told me that she will never forget the smell of so much spilt blood.”

As she begins the retelling of Zathrian’s tale of unnaturally long life, I let my eyes drift closed and reach out with my senses through the encampment, seeking the consciousness which should reside neat Zathrian camps. I have a distinct suspicion that I dare not voice to any of my companions, made only stronger by the sensations of being watched today and the tales about Zathrian’s unnatural lifespan and unquenchable rage.

I rest, letting myself lean against Alistair’s reassuring mass. He puts an arm around my waist, pulling me snugly against his side as Wynn shifts the conversation to a report of his findings within the documents from Ostagar. “I’ve been reading King Maric…” he pauses and I feel him tense for a moment, then relax “…my father’s journals.” 

My eyes are closed, but I can feel the determined approval coming from both Leliana and Wynn as Alistair continues. “The oldest of them starts when he was just a little younger than I am now. It seems I’m not the first of my blood to owe my life to the Witch of the Wilds.”

I open my eyes and raise my head so I can look into his gaze. So many emotions reside there that I am surprised he can even get the words out.

“Flemeth,” he says the name with a shudder and I wrap my arms around him supportively, studiously ignoring Wynn’s disapproving glare, “she gave him the first journal to keep his own counsel and his secrets safe, bound by his own blood.” He shudders again.

“It’s not precisely blood magic,” I whisper soothingly, “it’s the same kind of ritual that creates and binds the phylacteries of neophytes when we come to the Circles. Blood has a surprising number of uses approved by the Chantry.” 

Wynn clears he throat disapprovingly, and I look directly into her pale eyes, “What?” I ask rhetorically, “You’re not going to tell me to deny and inconvenient truth are you?”

“No,” she tells me after a long suffering sigh, “I simply would not have shared that ‘inconvenient truth’ with those who do not need to know.”

“Alistair and Leliana need to know,” I argue, “as we may all find ourselves relying on blood-cypher to keep our plans from our foes in the not too distant future. We will not always be so small a band that we can move easily together. We will in all likelihood need to be in two places at once before the year is out, and relying on runners or ravens to send messages between camps. Is it not easier to trust such missives when you are confident they cannot be read by our foe if intercepted or lost?”

Leliana looks at me thoughtfully and nods her head. Wynn shakes her head at first, then sighs, obviously accepting my logic.   
“Anyway,” Alistair cuts into the brooding silence, “My father wrote that Flemeth told him to be wary of Logain. She predicted that he would be my father’s greatest ally, but would betray him if kept close.” He grips me tighter for support and rakes his other hand through his unruly hair. “He also wrote that Flemmeth warned that Ferelden would face a Blight and all hope would be lost if my father’s line was not alive to face it.” 

“She knew,” I whisper into the echoing silence of my shocked companions. “She knew everything. That’s why she came for us at the Tower of Ishal.”

“She knew,” Alistair confirms with a resigned sigh, “but why save me instead of Cailan? And why save you?”

“Because,” I say softly, regretfully, “you have far more sense than your half-brother did, regardless of what Morrigan thinks.” I lean up and away from the man I know now that I love beyond reason, and place my palms upon his cheeks to turn his eyes to mine. “And because you wouldn’t ever have used any of it if I wasn’t here to kick you in the shins until you realized it.” I smile, willing all the love in my heart to show in my eyes.

Alistair just blushes, and for a long moment there’s only the two of us in all of Thedas.

Then Wynn clears her voice, and the weight of the world rushes back in to crush us. She presents a lecture on responsibility, duty and sacrifice as though teaching a bunch of young apprentices. Every word is like an icy chisel to my heart. I hear the message loud and clear that I should forget my affection for my fellow Grey Warden, and he any affection that might be growing in his heart for me. Leliana’s face is twisted up in an annoyed pout as she looks at Wynn.

I eventually extricate myself from the lecture, begging leave to study and prepare before venturing out again in the morning. I promise to consider Wynn’s words very carefully, however, before I leave, and I’m rewarded with her self-satisfied smile. Leliana plays interference so that Alistair can extricate himself as well and walk into the moonlight to join me at the edge of the woods. He reaches out and pulls my back against his chest, wrapping his arms about me. I reach up and wrap my arms over his, leaning into his chest to give and receive solace. We stand this way quietly until nearly dawn. 

Even Wynn and Leliana are snoring lightly when we return to the tents, our heads and hearts full of conflicting needs. “You’ll study the journals while I’m gone?” I ask as I leave him at his tent.

“So I can learn to be the King I was never supposed to be?” He asks with slight bitterness.

“So you can know the father and brother you were never able to while they lived,” I tell him gently, pressing a kiss to his cheek as I turn to gather my packs and begin waking the companions who will accompany me back out into the forest.


	20. Forest Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little twist on fighting werewolves

I have not slept the hours my companions have, but I feel no fatigue. My only reference for time passing in the perpetual crepuscular dimness is the intensity of my hunger. When the growling of my voracious gut becomes loud and constant enough that we would miss the howl of wolves for its distraction, we stop by a stream to make repast. 

Morrigan takes a few moments to forage, while Sten and Zevran take similar contraptions from their packs. The two men exchange glances of amused approval as they assemble short rods and string them with a fine line bearing a hook at the far end. Sten is reaching for his rations when Zevran produces a small, stone urn, removing its ingeniously fashioned lid to reveal a writhing mass of grubs. He offers it to Sten, who takes a grub with quiet thanks. I watch in some interest as they cast the lines into the water and sit upon the bank of the stream, holding the rods. After some time passes, each pulls back the line cast into the stream, struggling as though there is new weight upon it. Wriggling fishes emerge attached to their lines and I gasp in wonder, having never before seen a fish caught this way. The two men sit in companionable silence for a time before Zevran begins peppering Sten with questions about the Qunari people and Sten in general. Sten answers good-naturedly, and even smiles  
Morrigan returns with a plethora of edible berries, tubers, and herbs while I am still cleaning fish and laying them out on the broad leaves of a tree I have recognizes to be not harmful. She nods in approval and we pack the fish with some of her herbs and bind the parcels tightly. 

We stuff them in my small cookpot along with several smooth, flat stones taken from the river, and take turns channeling the tiniest tendrils of fire into the stones as we resume walking. When we stop again due to my impossibly loud gut rumbling, there are steaming parcels of warm, perfectly cooked fish for all. Sten looks askance at the pot and makes the sign to ward off evil, but eats the fish with relish none-the-less. 

We spend a relatively uneventful day venturing into the forest, and I walk with senses expanded, searching for the pull of the vast magic that would be necessary to sustain a curse like that I felt in the infected Dalish. I also keep an eye peeled for elfroot and am able to gather more stock of it than I would be able to process alone in a week with the Tower’s alchemy equipment. The plant grows in wild profusion beneath every tree and along every game trail it would seem. A few times I catch the brush of that other consciousness along my own, and I know we are being stalked. 

As the hunger is becoming pronounced for the third time since our departure, I feel the unmistakable wrongness of the Blight from the side of the trail and ahead. “Darkspawn are nearby,” I say to my quietly bickering companions, interrupting yet another attempt by Zevran to coax Morrigan into his bedroll for the night. We set down packs and limber up weapons, slipping toward the source of the corruption with impressive silence considering Sten’s massive size. I sense an average-sized raiding party of genlock and hurlock with the addition of the massive wrongness of an ogre. I relay this swiftly to my companions and we creep within sight of the creatures, The smaller darkspawn sit about a fire, taking turns ripping chunks off a mildly decayed and unrecognizable body still clad in its Dalish armor. My gorge rises and I must force it down as I signal my companions to flank our vile enemy.

Zevran nods assent with a grin and melts into the shadows. Sten gives me a hard, thoughtful stare and begins to slowly, quietly take position. Morrigan simply gives me a vicious grin and stares back at the darkspawn, waiting. I prepare the explosive spell, and rush the fire, welling out the incantation as I charge, staff raised. As one, the head of every darkspawn turns to me and a sibilant, hissing roar of pure hatred leaves their foul throats in unison.

I feel the gratifying jolt as my spell takes hold in the core of my hurlock target, and I stop still, summoning my shield as the raiding party surround me. They don’t even waver in their intent on killing me as Zevran leaps onto one’s back, thrusting his sword cleanly through its ribcage. The one Sten lays open with a sweeping strike of his greatsword turns from me to engage my companions, but the others retain their murderous focus on me. Sten’s target freezes in place, and his next blow shatters it. Then the keening starts. Pain overrides even the drive to slay, and the hurlock wraps its arms about itself. I scream at my companions to fall back as the keening increases in intensity. I close my eyes to concentrate on keeping my shield to full power as the shockwave rips through it. I let my shields fall a second later, and engage the remaining genlock with my staff, dispatching it quickly.

Sten appears at my side within a heartbeat, meeting a swordthrust meant for me with an upswing of his own blade. Even as he cleaves the creature in two, the ground shakes beneath our feet as a giant boulder strikes the ground less than a sword-length away. I am knocked to the ground and Sten is staggered. I shake my head to clear my vision and try to right myself even as a terrible certainty that I am about to die washes over me. The ground trembles again and again as the ogre approaches at a run, its enraged bellow instilling fear and robbing my knees of their strength. “Rise,” I command myself, “on your feet!”

“Is that all you’ve got?” I hear Zevran’s sultry accent echo about the site of battle, followed by a confused grunt from the ogre. I look up in time to see the elf spring off the ogre’s back and just out of reach of its giant, grasping hand. Beady, rage-filled eyes sweep back toward me as I finally gain my feet, and begin to channel, meeting those eyes with a hard glare of my own. The ogre shifts its stance to one I recognize as preparation to charge, but it never manages its forward surge. Instead a massive gust of icy wind sweeps over it, freezing it in its tracks, and Sten comes bounding from the opposite direction. With a mighty leap, he brings his blade down upon the ogre, his entire body adding momentum to the swing. One great arm is severed cleanly at the elbow, parted as if Sten were a master butcher preparing the joint for a roast. Zevran drops in from the canopy above, thrusting sword and dagger into the frozen monster’s body at twenty locations that would cause near-instant exsanguination were the thick, viscous ichor not magically slowed within the creature’s veins. I watch the spark of animating malice fade from the ogre’s eyes and unweave my spell, letting the gathered energy reform for practical heavy-lifting. 

“Morrigan,” I command, “check everyone for injuries. Zevran, Sten, wash yourselves and your swords quickly. The blood is poison, and at this point there is no cure.”

As my companions care for themselves and one another, I pull all of the darkspawn corpses into a pile on the spot where I exploded the hurlock. I reach up with my will, scything through branches and leaves and pulling them into the pile as well, until I am fairly certain I have all the remnants of the corruption in one place. 

“Why do you do this?” Sten asks as my companions return to my side, clean and uninjured.

“Will you light it please?” I ask Morrigan, knowing her ability with elemental control to be far beyond my own.

She nods, then explains to Sten, “The blight corrupts everything it touches. The Warden is trying to contain the damage, by cutting out the infection and having the wound cauterized.”

“Make camp,” I tell my companions, “upwind of the fire, we must stay until it all burns to ensure we don’t set the whole forest ablaze. We may not find a better opportunity to sleep.”

Morrigan and Zevran volunteer for second watch, and I make a circuit of the area, reaching out to the ebb and flow of life and power to the forest to make sure there is no tell-tale sign of festering Blight sickness. I find a few tainted and dying creatures, ending them quickly with little crushing prisons and adding them to the blaze. I also come across a string of snares, most likely laid by the hunter that became a meal for the darkspawn, and am able to bring back a few rabbits that the other predators of the forest did not already make meals of. I also retrieve the snares themselves, as they had served their purpose here. 

When I return to my companions, Zevran and Morrigan are deeply asleep. Sten watches me carefully as I build a fire, then skin and butcher the rabbits, tossing them into my pot with some of Morrigan’s tubers and a good amount of wild herbs.  
“You are not quite as callow as I thought,” Sten says after a time, breaking the silence. “That is… unexpected.”

“Oh, I was every bit as callow as you thought when I let you out of that cage,” I reply after a chuckle, “barely more than a child by my people’s reckoning, and cloistered away from the world for most of that youth.”  
“That explains why you let me out,” he muses to himself, “it was one of the things I found puzzling about your character.”

“Well, I find plenty puzzling about you as well,” I say with a gentle smile, focusing on the stew rather than my companion.

“What is there to be puzzled by?” He asks tesitly, and I can hear the creak of his armor as he crosses his arms before his chest. He can’t see my grin as I am staring into the pot, but he continues “I’m a simple creature. I like swords. I follow orders. There’s nothing else to know about me.”

“You,” I say, finally looking up from the pot to meet his gaze fully, “are far from simple, and there is much to know about you.” I give him a respectful nod and he returns it as we lapse into companionable silence. 

When the stew is ready, I wake Morrigan and Zevran. The four of us eat, much to the delight of my petulantly growling stomach. Sten falls asleep moments after finishing, and I self-administer the tinctures and spells that I have been learning from Wynn to protect my child. Morrigan watches, and her eyes widen as understanding dawns. I nod to confirm the question in her eyes, then lay down to sleep.

I wake before what would be the end of watch with a deeply unpleasant roiling in my gut. My gorge rises for no reason I can fathom and I barely make it to the downwind side of the smoldering darkspawn pyre before the uncontrollable retching starts. I empty everything from my stomach, then rinse my mouth with bright, clear water from my water skin, only to rush back around the pyre to heave again. With nothing in my stomach to come up, the sensation is decidedly torturous. As I sink to my knees beside my puddle of sick, waiting for the next paroxysm of heaving, Morrigan comes to my side, and presses dry, salty biscuit into my hands. 

“Eat it,” she tells me when I look up to protest, “it will help.”

She smooths my hair back gently as I comply, and find that the bland, salty, starchy substance does indeed calm the urge to re-empty my already bare stomach. 

“Mother never said,” she muses, “but you’ve not had time to lay with anyone since she treated you, unless you and Alistair, you didn’t?” She looks at me with horrified shock, and I suppress a groan of mingled amusement and disappointment.  
“I was pregnant when your mother pulled me from the battle,” I tell her softly, “freshly conceived that day no less.” 

“On the eve of battle,” she muses aloud, “yes, it might have been enough if the father had very strong blood.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask while munching discontentedly as the biscuit.

“Grey Wardens can’t generally conceive,” she tells me.

I look at her askance, asking “why didn’t anyone tell that to me before I got pregnant?” 

“If the whole order was as witless as Alistair, it is likely they simply never thought to tell you,” she replies with a smirk. “The grimoire you found, it is not precisely a grimoire. It is a journal of sorts. Mother mentioned a Grey Warden, a mage, who wanted to bear her lover a son. Mother gave advice on the matter, and exacted a price.”

“What was the price?” I ask with a shiver.

“If mother recorded it, I have not yet found the passage,” Morrigan tells me with a shrug. “Now if you are well, we should be about our business of breaking curses.”

“Morrigan,” I ask as she helps me to my feet, “will I be sick like this often?”

“Every morning for approximately one third of the pregnancy according to mother’s lessons on midwifery.”

“Your mother taught you midwifery?”

“Of course. Mother regularly assisted desperate women with their complicated pregnancies, and she insisted I learn as I too might have need of the knowledge someday.”

“Very practical, your mother,” I conclude as we rejoin Zevran and the recently woken Sten, “she did well by you to instill that virtue.”

“Indeed.” Morrigan agrees, quickly stowing her gear, and handing me three more of the dry biscuits in the process.

“You should attempt the largest meal at mid-day,” she tells me softly, “and keep your dinner as light as possible. If you begin nibbling one of the biscuits as you wake, you should lose the least of your previous day’s sustenance.”

“Thank you,” I whisper softly to her, and she simply nods in return.

Mid-day finds us in conference with the very wolf-men carriers of the curse who so recently attacked the Dalish. I admit to surprise that they offer parlay rather than blind attack, and find myself calmly discussing their demands. They accuse me of meddling in matters I do not understand, and race away into the forest before I can beg that they remedy my ignorance. I do have opportunity to get a good feel for their essence, however, to the point where I can track and differentiate the particular sound and scent of it from the deafening roar of the thriving, wild forest.

I find myself grateful for this new ability to identify the werewolves before we top the next rise, and I feel multiple, pain-maddened signatures rushing toward us. I have just enough time to warn my party to ready themselves when the werewolves crest the hill and howl in rage and hunger. 

Sten returns the challenge with a defiant battle cry, and all eyes swivel toward him. Almost as one, the pack descends into the sweeping arcs of his flashing blade. Morrigan lets fly with fire and frost, but the curse upon the creatures seems to give them a modicum of resistance to her attacks. I channel power through my staff, firing bolts of pure destructive energy as though they were an unending supply of arrows. Zevran disappears in my periphery only to reappear behind one charging beast, his favorite dagger blossoming out of its neck, just below the base of the skull. The beast goes down thrashing and flailing, tripping the creature immediately to its right, making that one Zevran’s next target. He moves with more than the speed and grace of the wolves I’ve faced in battle, and I find myself momentarily reflecting that I was fortunate to have incapacitated him before he could do more than sass me. 

I hear a crunch and a cry of pain from Sten, and turn to see massive jaws locked about one arm, while he tries to bring his massive blade to bear on the beast with the other. It is the last beast standing, and I can feel its essence completely distinct from Sten. Without really considering what might go wrong, I turn the cursed werewolf essence back on itself, crushing the life from the beast. Sten howls with rage, letting his sword fall in attempt to wrench the beast’s jaws open with his free hand. 

I feel the lasy spark of life leave the werewolf, and its jaws finally relax. Gouts of arterial bloodspray greet the opening of its maw, and I cry for Morrigan to come quickly. Sten sinks to his knees, unable to do more than hold his arm. I pull rope from my pack, fashioning a tourniquet at Sten’s biceps to slow the blood and allow Morrigan time to begin closing the worst of the wounds. 

She looks at me with deeply fatigued eyes, saying “I have no more left to draw.”

“Use me,” I command, opening my consciousness to allow her to bond with me. 

“How?” she asks, obviously completely unused to working with others.

I take her hand, saying “feel me, feel where I am, and open to receive what I offer.”

She knits her eyebrows, then closes her eyes and I feel her warm, furry, animal presence. I open myself and offer my power, visualizing it as a flow of water from my hand being passed to hers. Understanding dawns from the other side of the bond and she opens to take the flow into herself. Within heartbeats, the blood pumping from Sten’s arm ebbs to a trickle. The broken, mangled line of the bones straightens into proper alignment, and sinew, muscle, then skin wriggle their way back together. At some point during the process, Sten loses consciousness and falls heavily upon my back. Morrigan’s control wavers and she releases the extra power, falling to her side on the ground beside Sten. 

“Zevran,” I pant, “help.”

Without his usual saucy come-ons, Zevran helps me shift Sten’s weight off my back and onto the ground.

I assess Morrigan first, checking that she is just exhausted. She is otherwise unharmed, and I let out a relieved sigh. I then turn to Sten, feeling his essence. He is whole, and I remove the tourniquet. I can sense the faintest traces of the corrupting curse within the freshly healed arm as I probe a little closer. They are wending their way slowly toward his heart. I think about how I caged the archdemon essence, and focus my power to create something similar in Sten. The spread slows to just barely perceptible, but I can’t stop it. I also can’t precisely sustain a weave inside someone else waking and sleeping, so I know that when I rest fully the curse will begin to spread again.

“Zev,” I say softly, “tell me a story, we’re stuck until they recover enough to move.

He curls in next to my side like a housecat, and I haven’t the energy to push him away. After a moment, I realize I actually find the proximity somewhat comforting and I listen in fascinated horror as he tells me humorous stories about near-death experiences and waxes poetic about the stench of tanneries making him long for the brothel that was his first home. 

“Did you know your mother or father?” I ask with genuine curiosity.

“My mother was Dalish,” he tells me with a small curve of his lips. 

He continues to weave a tale about a young huntress falling madly in love with a flat-ear woodsman and abandoning her clan to settle with the man she loved. Only the woodsman fell ill when she was heavy with child, and she could neither leave to seek her clan, nor work to pay off her husband’s debts and indenture. She was sold to a brothel to pay his creditors, and when she died a few years later Zevran was sold to the Crows to balance all the ledgers.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell him with tears in my eyes.

“Don’t weep for me, my darling,” he says in that sultry, smoky voice, reaching up to wipe away the one tear that slips down my cheek, “all stories of orphans in Antiva are sad, but if we waste time dwelling on or weeping for lost possibilities, we fail to take the possibilities that are not lost to us.”

“You are remarkably optimistic,” I say with a chuckle, turning my gaze from his lustfully burning amber eyes.

“How can I not be when my quest to find death found life at the hands of a goddess instead?” he asks in a soft purr, reaching out to turn my gaze back to meet his.

In the short time I’ve known him, Zevran has flirted outrageously with every attractive person he’s laid eyes on, regardless of age or gender. I never suspected him capable of deeper emotion, but I am moved by the raw honesty in his eyes now. I know the surprise and wonder I’m feeling have colored my gaze before I can control them. I let myself smile as I shake my head.

“You confound me, Zev,” I say truthfully, “truly and completely.”

He simply laughs and offers to tell me more of his exploits. I let him, keeping vigilant over my resting companions for what feels like hours. 

Sten is in a worse mood than usual on waking, and with the look of revulsion he casts on Morrigan, I can’t tell whether he is grateful to have been repaired or wishes we had let him die rather than being magically healed. “You owe her your continued ability to breathe and scowl,” I tell him softly.

He grumbles about being unclean and touched by a “saarebas,” which I gather is the Qunari term for mage. Then groans that even if he found his sword and and answer for the Arishok he still might not be welcomed again in Par Vollen.  
“That’s an academic point right now,” I tell him calmly, softly. “You’re infected with the curse. Morrigan and I are keeping it at bay, right now at no small cost to our own effectiveness.”

I take a deep breath and let my own sorrow and frustration be visible in my eyes for a moment as I continue, “if we don’t break it in fairly short order, the curse may just grant you that death wish you made back in Lothering.” 

He is silent after that, and deeply introspective.


	21. Seek and Ye shall Find

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our adventurers get one step closer to resolving the curse and gaining their Dalish allies

Days may have passed since Sten became infected or mere hours. In the perpetual crepuscular gloom of the forest, I feel disoriented in both time and space. We have followed my senses toward what I feel as a high concentration of the magic that powers the curse only to become lost in fog and travel in circles. Always feeling like I am leading us closer, we find ourselves passing the same grove for the third time. My only solace in the matter is that each time we loop back to our start, I catch the subtle presence of the consciousness that appears to have been stalking me since I entered these strange woods and it’s every bit as lost as my companions and I. 

“It’s no use,” I say sadly to Morrigan as she makes a second mark on the rigid trunk of the gnarled Whitewood tree that first led me to suspect we were traveling back over our own path. 

“The Forest protects her secrets,” Morrigan confirms with a sage nod.

“Perhaps as a maid with a chastity belt, she waits only the right moment to give up the key…” Zevran purrs into my ear, having crept so close that I can feel the sultry warmth of his breath tickle the fine hairs of my neck.

“And how, pray tell,” I counter in a tight voice, “do you suppose we coax her to give it up?”

Zevran laughs throatily and Morrigan rolls her eyes. Sten simply leans against the tree and says nothing. His usually impassive features are showing fine traces of strain around the eyes and lips. When he thinks our attention is not on him, I have caught Sten rubbing at his right arm and flexing the fingers in effort to relieve tightness or discomfort more than once. For a man who stood stoically in a cage for ten days without food nor drink, the subtle sign of pain speaks volumes. He has no words of condemnation for our being lost, and I expect no encouragement from his corner. I worry for his deeper-than-usual silence, however, and that is what convinces me to turn away from the pull of the curse and sink down beside the tree to feel out the other sources of the ebb and flow of power through the forest.

Twice my concentration is broken by the angry roar of my stomach demanding repast, and once by that same traitorous bit of anatomy opting to attempt emptying itself of the last several meals all at once. My mind seems clearer and more attuned to the intricacies of the forest each time I resume my study. My third reopening to the web of life and power gives me precisely what I need. The circling fogs hold a distinctive energy that has a faint and far echo in the direction opposite our approach to the curse. If we can locate this source, it may provide us a means to circumvent the fog and confusion.

None of my companions complain or question when I tell of my plan. Sten’s eyes are red-rimmed and his lips pale, but even he nods assent without hesitation. Perhaps it is the new urgency I feel over Sten’s deterioration, or maybe it is that I am following a shining, crystalline thread of life and power and getting appreciably closer to its source, but time feels like it is once again moving in a measured, forward manner. We move as rapidly as we are able down game trails, weaving between the massive trunks of Ironbark, Ash, Whitewood, and Dragonthorn.

We are so close I can almost see the shape and structure of the source when the earth trembles beneath our feet and a great howl, as if the ground itself were in agony, echoes sourcelessly from all about the great wood. Even as I pull my senses back to myself, I feel a subtle, background malice I had been ignoring suddenly intensify and focus on me. 

I’m still trying to figure out the source and nature of the malignant entity when the very canopy of the forest comes crashing down around me, binding me within a cage of branches and roots. 

“It’s in the trees!” Zevran yells, fading from view into the dappled shadows.

“It is the trees!” Morrigan counters, bringing her staff down upon my living prison as though it were an axe.

“Not all of them,” I add, “just a few old and malicious plants.”

A grunt from Sten may have been a chuckle, but he’s unlikely to ever tell me one way or the other. What is certain is that he is favoring his right arm as though it pains him or does not respond as usual. He is blocking sweeping blows from lashing branches as rapidly as he is able, but he cannot seem to counterattack as he normally would. Morrigan is alternating focused blasts of fire and ice at branches lashing out at her. I can’t get a good focus or retaliate, as the living cage seems to dampen my connection to my own power. The roots and vines making the prison draw tighter together and I know a moment of panic that I may be crushed without any way to defend myself.

Seemingly from nowhere a small axe buries itself in the dark trunk of a nearby tree, and a creaking groan similar to the felling of a great tree echoes through the wood, stopping my companions in their tracks. Viscous red-amber pitch wells around the axe and pours from the trunk even as I finally catch sight of Zevran, a self-satisfied grin curving his lips even as he readies a new axe.  
“Thank you!” I call to my companion as I turn my focus on the freshly identified enemy. I grasp the bars of my cage, forcing my way out between them and run into a shaft of sunlight opened through the canopy by the sudden attack of our wooden foe. I reach out and touch on the malicious power animating the tree, siphoning it into myself before turning it on itself. It’s impossible to describe the agonized scream of an animated tree, but the soul that hears it cannot possibly be the same after. I’m not, that’s for certain, and the tree is still screaming as my spells crush it from within, imploding the power that animates it to nothing even as sword, axe, and fire destroy its weapons and body.

I vow never again to ignore malice, even background malice, and cast my senses out once again. I push myself to my limits and past, trying to identify other potential sources like this one. I find three other sources of malicious power, each every bit as unfocused, ancient, and broad as the now fallen and crumbling tower of once-animated wood before me had been before I drew its interest. I warn my companions and we gather in the shaft of sunlight as I once more seek out the source of the strange, confusing power from the mists. Not knowing how I drew the attention of our recent foe, we move as quietly and carefully as we are able toward our goal. Unfortunately, there seems to be no way to not gather the attention of massive and malicious trees. Twice more the ancient, angry arbors do their utmost to destroy my companions and myself, but I am able to recognize the sudden focus and give warning well ahead. 

As we fight our way closer to the source of the confusing power I have been tracking, I notice its similarities with the ancient, malevolent force animating the trees. Just ahead I see a break in the canopy and a single shaft of sunlight makes the green and amber leaves of a tree within its center glitter like finely faceted gems. The trunk twists unnaturally and branches unfurl, revealing a shape remarkable in its likeness to a man. My companions rapidly assume fighting stances, but I command them to stand down, for there is no malice in this power. 

“What manner of beast be thee…” a voice as deep and earthy as the very ground we tread upon issues from the figure before us “… that comes before this Elder Tree?”

“A human creature here you see,” I intone in my clearest, calmest voice, feeling an inexplicable need to speak also in rhyme, “humbly seeking aid from thee.” I end the quick couplet with the most gracious curtsey I can manage, then gaze up into the high branches of the tree, finding a gnarling within the bark that resembles the grillework of a templar's helm.

Morrigan screws up her face in confusion, bordering on exasperation, and conjectures about the possible spirits involved in the animation of a rhyming tree. I merely accept the surreality of the situation, since little has made complete sense after I left the Circle. Instead, I graciously accept the welcome of the Grand Oak, as it calls itself, and strike a bargain: one boon for another.   
Tones of soul-wrenching sorrow color the Grand Oak’s voice when it speaks of the lost acorn it wishes us to return to it. A glance at my companions reveals every eye glistening with tears, and streaks through the travel dust on Zevran’s cheeks tell me that he did not bother with attempting to suppress them.

I must clear my throat twice before the choking sensation of my own unshed tears resolves enough for my reply. “For your loss, we deeply grieve,” I say with somber gravity, “thus your seed we will retrieve.”

Somewhat surprisingly, Morrigan and Sten bow respectfully to the tree and make no protest about our lack of time to help a creature that cannot possibly stand to fight the darkspawn at our sides. Zevran most surprisingly of all is completely silent for the hours necessary for us to travel the winding forest pathways to a far clearing described by the Grand Oak.

A small campfire sits within a perfectly cleared ring of bare, packed ground. The ring is in-turn encircled by a small tent, a stump, and a variety of piles of objects that I do not even want to attempt to identify. Runes and symbols are carved into the packed dirt, but a careful assessment reveals they are incomplete and unpowered. I am utterly confused by this and command extreme caution as we approach. I feel no sense of the man who occupies this place, but I do feel the faint echo of the Grand Oak’s essence from somewhere within the ragged camp. 

As I sink to my knees to inspect the stump, a haggard man is suddenly next to me, swinging his fist with precision and conviction toward my face. I roll to the side, out of the way, and only then do my companions notice his presence. The man rushes me again and again I roll away, using the tiniest bit of my focused power to help myself to my feet at the completion of the roll. As my companions ready their weapons, the man stops pressing his attack, instead brushing stringy grey hair from his equally grey eyes and scowling at me quite impressively. The scowl is only enhanced by his matted, silver beard and the faded lines of ancient, runic tattoos carved into the sagging skin that hangs from his gaunt cheekbones. The man rings grime-covered, black-nailed hands and bemoans what the world is coming to.

I attempt to ask him gently who he is and why he is here. I have my own theory, of course. The tattoos are still a common practice with young elemental manipulators of the Primal school. The aged leather of his sagging skin increases the difficulty in distinguishing the runic shapes, but the bolstering, focusing effect the ritual scarification imparts is an unmistakable part of his power signature. This mad creature is a mage, and a fairly powerful one at that.

I know a moment of concern when he snaps about my question, but then those not-quite-cogent eyes sparkle with mirth and he offers a trade of questions for questions. It is impossible to be certain if a madman is being truthful, but most of our questions are innocuous so it would matter little. The only important question I ask is “would you like to trade?”

“Would I?” he asks and produces wares to trade, including a glowing acorn which absolutely throbs with the power signature of the Grand Oak. He gives it in return for the shiny silver ring that was my symbol of station on passing my harrowing. Though there is power in the ring, I feel it a good trade for the potential of being able to break the blood curse of the werewolves. 

The triumphant return to the Grand Oak is blessedly eventless. The joy of the Grand Oak is every bit as contagious as its sorrow as I return the seed. In return, it poetically offers me a branch from its back, thick as my wrist, long as I am tall, and straight as a finished stave. In simple verse it tells me that holding to the branch will convince the magic of the forest that we are trees, thus dissipating the confusion and malice the other ancient dwellers of the forest would focus in my party’s direction.

“Grand Oak, more thanks than mine I give,” I say before leaving, not being able to resist one last rhyme, “deep grow your roots, long may you live.” Morrigan rolls her eyes at me as we all bow and take our leave of the Grand Oak’s clearing.

As a test, have everyone grasp the branch and we walk close enough to the last standing malevolent tree for it to have noticed us. The malice does not focus, and we pass by unmolested, much to my relief. Sten actually walks a little straighter holding the branch, almost as though the curse slows its progress through his blood. 

Having the branch to keep us all together, I walk with my senses wide, tracking the signature of the blood curse. The branch also seems to impart some energy to us so that our steps do not flag, but it does nothing for my ravenous gut. 

“You need to eat, lest you call half the forest down upon us,” Morrigan says in exasperation.

“It’s not that bad…” I begin, only to be interrupted by a particularly vociferous belly rumble.

“Indeed,” Zevran counters Morrigan while giving an entirely inappropriate look to my waistline, “I would think such fierce growls would convince most forest creatures to keep their distance…”

“And yet it seems not to have that effect on even the nearest predators to hand…” Morrigan fires back, giving a contemptuous glance to our companion.

I pull my senses back into myself to focus fully on the conversation and open my mouth to ask for peace. I never get the words out because I spy the mossy banks of a small stream where the forest canopy is thin enough to let in the soft, dappled amber of sunset. The sight is beautiful, welcoming, and not too far ahead. “We will stop there,” I tell my companions, stopping arguments far more effectively than whatever forgotten rejoinder I was about to use.

The moss is soft beneath my feet and the sunlight warm upon my skin. Gazing around the small clearing, my companions and I all spy a small, tidy camp not far away. It seems delightfully fortuitous. Perfectly smooth river stones ring a pit of cold ashes. A cord of split wood is stacked nearby as though patiently waiting for residents to return. Sten and Zevran drag Morrigan and myself toward the camp. As we reach the tents, they release their hold on the Grand Oak branch and sink down beside the long-cold ashes. Morrigan releases the branch as well and ventures to the stacked wood, bringing pieces over to the pit to build a small, warm blaze.

I feel a vague sense of familiar unease steal over my heart as I set down the branch and my pack, searching the depths of the latter for sufficient rations to calm my gut. I’ve not even located half of my intended meal when I hear snores. I look up from my task to see both Sten and Zevran collapsed upon their sides around the ring of stones.

Morrigan meets my eyes and snorts derisively, making a sweeping gesture toward our companions. “For all their vaunted strength, men clearly lack stamina,” she says with dry humor and a wry twist to her lips.

“It’s fortunate, then, that I count a mighty Witch of the Wilds as one of my closest friends,” I tell her with an earnest grin before delving back into the pack.

When I emerge again with the full complement of rations for a sizable meal, Morrigan is still looking at me, a seemingly endless variation of emotions running through her eyes and causing something akin to a minor tic in the corners of her lips and her eyebrows.

“You,” she starts, and has to clear her throat, “you mean that.” It’s a statement, not a question, and there is a tone of wonder in her voice that I’ve not heard before.

“You’re slipping,” I tell her with a soft, genuine smile, nodding a confirmation to the question in her gaze, “you just lost an excellent opportunity to chide me for my softness.”

“There is no point in belaboring a truth you already know,” she says with a thin smile.

I laugh and assist her in building the tidy fire so that I can toss my rations and a bit of water into my pot and make a hearty stew much more likely to stay with me than the rations themselves.

We speak companionably about the nature of our magical talents and share tales of terror and triumph from our respective childhoods while my stew simmers happily. Morrigan’s voice grows more and more drowsy, and I see her struggling to keep her eyes focused. I feel the same fatigue, but my huger has been keeping it handily at bay. There is an unnatural element to the fatigue. I become completely certain of this as I pull my pot from the fire and Morrigan collapses to her side, snoring softly in gentle repose.

I let the pot cool just enough for the contents not to scald my mouth. I devour the stew quickly, then lay down myself, grasping the Grand Oak’s branch and mentally walking through a control and focusing meditation to give whatever power is behind my fatigue the impression that I too am sleeping. Rather than sleep, however, I fall into a state of deep awareness of the surrounding forest. It takes only breaths for me to identify the source of the strange fatigue and, to my abject horror, I recognize it.

I am on my feet in the same heartbeat, staff at the ready as I stare into the shapeless, faceless mass of flesh and debris that constitutes a demon walking free of the fade. The power is old, and vast, but its physical manifestation takes much of the creature’s power and focus to maintain. This is my primary advantage as I reach out through the Grand Oak’s branch and use the energy of the forest to sever the creature’s hold on my companions. 

With a battle cry that would make Alistair weep with pride, I leap over the cheery campfire and bring my spirit-keened staff down through the center of the demon-construct. Its wail of agony is a thing sensed rather than heard in the unnatural stillness of the clearing, and I spring away, striking it a second time before it can reach out with limb or power to strike back at me. I hear my companions stirring, and I call for aid, even as I summon bolts of pure will and fling them at the demon. Chunks of its bulk fly away with each of my rapid strikes, and keeping itself together demands more and more of its focus as I dance out of reach of angrily flailing talons. It seems like an interminable struggle, striking, retreating, shielding myself as it lashes out with its own energy, attempting to force me into unnatural slumber. Yet it is only a few breaths and heartbeats before my companions are struggling to their feet and arming themselves. 

I cannot lend my attention to that process, ducking a lashing limb of the demon and finding myself rolling to the side as I step on one of the round stones of the fire ring, only for it to give beneath me. I narrowly avoid tangling with my own pack as I climb back to my feet. It is sheer good fortune that I retain my staff, leaning on it to rise. The campfire flames snuff beneath the bulk of the demon as it surges toward me, the tiny spark of elemental energy engulfed and absorbed by the mass, almost as if it was set out as a meal. The demon must focus on the fire for a breath to absorb it, though, and I use the pause to retreat farther, studying my adversary.

An unreasonably cold wind sweeps down on the shapeless creature and ice forms along its skin. For a moment it is frozen solid, and Morrigan’s triumphant cheer echoes through the clearing. I feel my lips curve into a determined grin as Sten’s great form leaps into my view, his greatsword arcing down upon the center of the frozen mass. An arrow and then another fly into the demon’s shattering bulk even as I reach out with my will, forcing the all-too-familiar power that animated the mass out and away from its core, disintegrating the will and eroding the focus that held the form together and anchored it to this place.

“Save me! Let me in,” the weak plea calls to my mind as I crush the last spark of the demon’s existence into the thin, ethereal fabric of the veil. Perhaps it finds its way through, or perhaps I grind it into oblivion against the barrier between realities, but the agonized cry dissipates, and all sense of its power and connection to this place are gone.

I lean on my staff and look about the previously cheery clearing. The soft, springy moss is real enough, though rock and loamy soil are not immediately beneath it. Instead, my companions and I have just stretched ourselves upon layers of moss-covered skeletons. A handful of fresher kills, bare of the mossy covering rest beneath the tattered canvas remains of a temporary shelter or lay clustered about a chest and the pile of cordwood.

“I wonder where it learned that trick…” Morrigan ponders aloud from a position not too far from the aged chest.

“I don’t know,” I reply.

“It was used quite effectively,” Zevran’s voice joins the discussion, carrying a note of respect, “and for some time.”

Sten’s deep, rumbling voice intones in Qunlat, and from his bearing, I surmise that he prays, whether for the souls of the fallen, in thanks that we remain, or for protection against further evils I cannot know, and don’t bother to ask.

“Let’s see what we can salvage, shall we?” I ask my other companions and we set to retrieving any highly valuable or useful items from what must be centuries worth of victims lured here by the hungry spirit. As soon as Sten is finished praying, we gather the oak branch and follow my lead toward the source of the werewolf curse once more, none of us wishing to even contemplate sleeping once more in this forest.


	22. Secrets and Spiders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search for the elusive werewolves gives ample opportunity for our adventurers to form closer bonds.

I roll from my furs and sprint the few steps to be downwind and behind a tree before the retching overcomes me. Morrigan is at my shoulder in moments with a waterskin and a dry biscuit. I am mentally marking days by this inevitable loss of whatever remains within me of the last three meals I’ve consumed. I pray to Andraste and the Maker for strength to endure this torment even as I speak the incantations Wynn taught me over myself and weave the appropriate energies. Morrigan has been studying the weaves, and may soon know them as well as I do myself. I depleted the stock of tinctures Wynn had prepared for this foray two episodes ago. At least this bout comes with my confidence that it will be the last before I beard the wolves in their lair and face Witherfang. We took a rest next to the many-times marked tree that alerted me to our circular lack-of-progress before we met the Grand Oak. 

I grow restless with anticipation, sensing the tug of the concentrated heart of the curse, but Sten is in agony. He grows haggard and weary. He clutches the Grand Oak’s branch in his sleep, for he can find no rest without it. His jaw is tight, and his teeth grind even in his sleep, but he is uncomplaining of his own discomfort. 

I thank Morrigan for her aid, and she shrugs it off as always, but I see the concern in her eyes as she looks over Sten and myself. Even Zevran is unusually silent as we all grasp the Grand Oak’s branch and pierce through the fogs, grateful that this time they aren’t accompanied by the overwhelming confusion we encountered before.

The mists part before us and howls echo and reecho from every direction. As I search about, attempting to find the source of the howls, I become aware that we have entered a vast ruin of ancient and alien construction. It is like, and yet unlike the grand arcades of the old Imperium. The walls are not so imposingly thick. The pillars and arches that remain show a delicate grace that makes all other buildings and ruins I have seen with my own eyes or in illustrations within the tomes of the Tower library seem crude and unrefined in comparison. I have no time to truly appreciate the ruin, however, as the same werewolves we met what seems an age ago charge up to parley again.  
Once again, I assert that we have come only to break the curse. Once again they mistrust me and flee deep within the ruins claimed by the forest. Once again, my companions and I fight for our very lives against pain-maddened humanoid wolves. Being well-rested and highly motivated, however, my party has great advantage. Between Morrigan’s manipulation of fire and ice, and my brute-force twisting of the cursed blood, most of the werewolves are little more than red mist before they come within range to strike with fang and claw. Watchers on the remnants of second-floor galleries slip behind columns and retreat into the shadows.

I clip the Grand Oak’s branch into my battle harness as my companions and I pick our way silently through the viscous, red mud puddles that mark where curse-maddened creatures once walked. I say a prayer to the maker, asking forgiveness for so many wasted lives, but I don’t even gaze about to try to catalog the carnage. We move into the shadows of the ruins.

We pass through a darkened arch and slip down and down a sloping pile of rubble into the remains of a grand gallery the like of which I am certain no living human has ever seen. Strange, not-quite-human sculptures stand vigilant in arched niches along both long walls of the gallery. The slope of rubble is all that remains of a once-grand stair, and we gaze up to see what would have been a second-floor arcade disrupted by solid stone in a sharp, arcing line to either side. I’m instantly reminded of my own domed shields. Magical cataclysm took place here on a scale nearly beyond my imagining. The massive energies raised by our battlemages at Ostagar could not have held forth a shield the size of the gallery before us. Even more fearsome to contemplate is the power that would have needed to be called and channeled to bring solid stone surging like the waves of the Waking sea up and over those shields. I am struck silent and still in the study of our surroundings, and only Zevran’s hand on my elbow brings me back to the here and now.

“We have an objective, my dear Warden,” he purrs in my ear, “perhaps we should achieve it?”

I shake my head and smile my thanks to him, willing my own essence through the crystals in the top of my staff so that they glow with a pale, gentle light. I have no doubt all my companions have means to see better in the absolute blackness of the swallowed ruins below, but I do not. Bearing the light will make me a target of anything lurking within these deep shadows, but I have little choice. I sigh. 

“Zev,” I whisper in the oppressive stillness of the ruin, “can you take point?”

“Anything for you, sweet Warden,” he replies with a saucy wink and draws two blades before shifting forward into the shadows. 

“A bold move, to beard the wolves in their den,” Sten comments with what I swear is an approving nod.

My only response is to lift my lighted staff and stride forward into the darkness.

I become distracted by the patterns in the tiles beneath my feet as we reach the gallery floor, and I find myself tracing those patters and they meander forward, reminiscent of vines or knotted cords. The far sides of the gallery and their sentinel statues are lost in the deep shadows the farther we venture from the light of the rubble slope. I feel strongly, however, that the patterns are leading somewhere. 

Soon enough, I find that somewhere as a broad, low, circular dais raises up from the ground before us. Zevran waits at the side, inspecting the skeletal remains of some long-dead warrior in armor the like of which I have never before seen. The armor has no luster in the soft glow of my charged staff. The bones within should have long decayed to powder, but they look almost as pale carved stone, ordered perfectly between the sections of dust-covered mail and plate. Uneasiness sits in the pit of my stomach.  
The soft glow of my staff shines across the edge of the dais as I turn to look at the skeleton, and strange runes shimmer along its surface. I draw closer and study them intently. I cannot read most, but I recognize one set from an ancient tome deep in the bowels of the Tower archives that I unearthed with several of the young elven apprentices. 

“Andaran atish’an,” I recite, pointing out the elegantly flowing and stylized runes that resemble the lines scratched in spidery script along the edge of a disintegrating treatise on the rise of the Tevinter Imperium that the other apprentices and I had poured over with every moment we could spare for weeks until one of the Senior Enchanters had taken it from us “for our own safety and that of the knowledge within.” 

I’m too busy lost in the memory of wonder on all of our young faces as we saw ancient Elvhen writing translated to notice the soft glow that begins to crawl across rune after rune, then creep through the intricate carvings along the floor tiles. Morrigan’s pleased murmur pulls me from my reverie and brings the spreading light to my attention. 

The dust and darkness fall away, and my companions and I stand in an open court paved in golden stone. The warm midafternoon light fills the lower court but creates only dappled shadows through the elegantly manicured vines that shade the upper galleries. This should be a place of beauty and repose, but a thousand armored warriors engage in endless, clamoring combat everywhere within the court. Factions clad in deep green, bold white, and shining silverite face others clothed in crimson, grey, and obsidian. Amid the furor, a single, golden-skinned child rushes across the court. His hair, a shock of brightest white against the glowing tan of his skin, is matted with blood. 

“Mamae!” he calls out, the word echoing unnaturally, as though through an underground chamber, though I can look up and see open sky above. “Mamae! Mamae!” He cries, more frantically. His large, silver eyes are round in abject terror, and as he turns, I can see that the blood that mats his hair is coming from a long gash just behind one knife-pointed ear. He turns his terror-filled eyes directly to me, his tone pleading as he once again calls “Mamae!”  
“Hush, da’len,” I say in my most soothing voice. “I am not here to hurt you.”

“Mana. Ma halani,” he says, “Ir din'an sahlin…”

“Ir abelas, da’len,” I say, his words being too fast for me to follow, and my hard-won knowledge of even these few words of his language being insufficient. “I don’t understand.”  
“Na melana sahlin,” he screams, crumpling to his knees, spreading his hands over glowing runes on the dais, “Na din'an sahlin!”

As suddenly as the vision comes, it is gone, and we are once again in an underground cavern. It is no longer dark, though, runes glow upon the dais, as do the intricate carvings of vines, leaves, and trees entwining every tile and pillar of the gallery. The armor-clad skeletons are also rising with the slow inevitability of inescapable death.

My companions and I retreat to the center of the dais, our backs against one another’s so we can at least face the onslaught that promises our swift and very painful fall.

“It will be a pleasure to die beside you,” Zevran murmurs to Morrigan, a sultry look in his eye.

“It’s my pleasure to watch you do so,” She replies with her most vicious smile, “but I don’t intend to join you.”

I laugh as I realize one very important thing. Even though the magic animating the skeletal warriors is ancient and strong, it’s all the same weave.

“Hold them off of me!” I call out, reaching out my will to infect the spell animating the dead with my own twisting, explosive conjuring. It’s a slow thing at first, and only Morrigan’s brilliant use of arcs of flame and walls of ice keep my companions from being overwhelmed. Zevran dances in and out, between the seemingly countless blades of undead soldiers, his slashing strikes doing little damage to creatures that do not bleed. His stealthy speed sows confusion in the ranks, however, and presents Sten with great opportunity for sweeping swings to crush and mangle armor and skeletons alike. 

All at once, I feel the infection surge within the magical weave, twisting it upon itself, igniting a destructive chain reaction. “To me!” I scream, and my companions fall back to my sides. I stop feeding my power into the infectious weave and will a shield into place about the four of us. It flickers, then stabilizes, and only just in time. One after another, the skeletons explode, their bones like so many shards of polished, sharp stone ripping holes in the ancient armors of their cohort as if the metal were mere cloth. The cavernous roof above trembles with the violent noise and rebounding shockwaves. A thin stream of dust falls atop my shield and trickles down the arcing side, but the massive dome of stone holds.

All hundred-odd undead creatures are reduced to powder in a surprisingly short amount of time. In the silence that follows, I become slowly aware of an unnatural humming. The magical glow that had lit every vine and root carved into the floor and walls is gone, but braziers set about the cavern are alight with dim, dancing flames. There is no smoke, and no fuel sits within the braziers to support the flames, moreover, they have a distinctively odd greenish-blue cast. 

I approach one, sensing its magical nature and reach out toward it. Morrigan grasps my hand with a firm “NO!”

I look at her in surprise and she glares back. “You may have only turned on the veilfire,” she tells me, “or you may have called all the corpses down upon us by reading out things you don’t understand. I never thought you might be as witless as Alistair, but now I’m unsure.”

“You are just as likely to be responsible for the trap with the corpses as I am,” I snap back, not willing to be cowed, “and what precisely is veilfire?”

“It’s an old art of the Elvhen,” Morrigan says, still glaring though a pompous grin plays around the corners of her mouth. “Flemmeth says your Chantry forbids it, so it surprises me not that you know nothing. In addition to being a means to light our way in dark places without burning or smoke, it is a means of keeping and sharing knowledge. Only a mage can create it, but once brought into being, even a fool like Alistair could use it. Be wary of all that you read or touch here, for neither of us has enough understanding of the ancient powers to undo the harm our ignorance may cause.”

I nod silently, finally cowed by the possible enormity of my novice-like error. At least there is the silver lining to my blunder in that the impenetrable blackness of the cave has been dispelled by the dim glow of countless small braziers. We venture into the twisting halls of the buried ruin, careful to avoid contact with anything even remotely luminescent. 

Even that care proves insufficient as we reach a caved-in section of corridor and must divert to a cavern through the raw stone. Without the dim glow of the veilfire, the utter blackness of the natural cavern is oppressive. Morrigan summons a tiny sphere of flame above and behind us to light our way and protect our backs. Alas, even the minuscule, restrained flames are enough to set the highly flammable webs of giant cave spiders alight. Within moments of Morrigan summoning the flames, a wave of fire streaks past us and through the cavern ahead. 

Still reeling from the sudden flash of blinding brightness, I barely have my staff up into guard position when six giant cave spiders converge upon us. Maddened with fear and pain from the fires which obviously injured them while flushing them from their lairs, the beasts attack with frenzied speed. I summon and hurl bolts of pure destructive will to defend myself. I fire at anything registering as beast to my senses without the time to fully concentrate or map the life-forces of my adversaries. The dim glow of the flames behind us is not enough to fully see the battle, and within brief heartbeats it too is gone, having been used as a weapon in the melee. 

I find I must spend an inordinate amount of concentration fighting down the primal terror of blindly fighting invisible creatures in profound darkness. The sound of steel cracking through chitin inspires some confidence, but all I can do to keep terror at bay is to thrust my staff at the chittering sound of mandibles and say silent prayers to Andraste. 

Hisses, screeches, and the solid, crackling thunk of brittle carapaces hitting unyielding stone tell me of the injury and death of crazed cave spiders. Eventually the only sound that remains is the heavy, erratic breathing of my terrified, exhausted companions and myself.

I grip my staff in both hands and will the soft glow to once again emanate through the capping crystals. Only then do I open eyes clenched tight in denial of the blinding darkness. Sten and Zevran have each taken a knee, backs pressed together in the tense, vigilant stillness of combatants expecting further attack. Morrigan crouches over her pack, left hand swiftly gliding over a series of flasks as though trying to read them by touch. Blood and some viscous, pearlescent fluid ooze from a wound in her right shoulder.

“Morrigan!” I gasp, dropping my staff to the cave floor and rushing to her side. 

She lifts her head and opens glazed eyes. “One of these is antivenom,” she groans weakly, her left hand dropping into her lap. 

I throw myself to my knees, taking up each vial in turn and reading the carefully printed labels by the light of my staff. By the time I have located the correct one, Morrigan has slumped to her side and the men have regained their feet and made their way to her.   
“Hold her upright on her knees, and very still,” I order the men, gesturing with the vial before I uncork it.

As the men bring Morrigan up to her knees, I pour the contents of the vial into the gaping wound in her right shoulder. I let the vial fall from my fingers as I press one hand to my friend’s head and the other to her heart, pressing my will into her to assess the damage. I can feel the subtle reaction of the venom and antivenom, and I drive my consciousness more deeply in, learning my friend’s essence almost as well as my own. Time and reality cease to exist for me in the long moments between heartbeats. I delve the secretes of my friend’s flesh and soul. I learn the nature of the poison and can feel its wrongness slipping like a silent assassin through Morrigan’s blood. 

I learn the nature of the antivenom, and feel the truth that its valiant attack has mounted too late. It will not be enough on its own. I reach deep inside my friend, willing the poison to pull back against the flow of blood, back toward its entry point. I feel it like fine, dark threads slipping backward through a complex tapestry at my urging. At the same time, I push the warmth and brilliance of the antivenom into the flow of blood, wrapping its shimmering essence around the tendrils of dark poison. I share tiny parts of my own essence with Morrigan’s, giving her energy to heal the damage from the passage of the poison even as the dark and light threads of venom and antivenom battle one another into nonexistence. 

“You do it all wrong.” I hear Morrigan’s shocked anger in my mind as well as my ears as her essence finds its power and pushes me gently, but firmly out and back into myself.

“Wrong?” I query as I exit my friend completely and feel my physical senses suddenly start to reengage.

“Healing in that way risks your own life,” Morrigan’s voice is weak but stern, “and Thedas cannot afford you to do that.”

“But you were dying,” I argue weakly.

“I am not ungrateful,” she grumbles, “but I expect you not to be an idiot.”

Her gentle hands belie her harsh words as she presses first elfroot elixir, then distilled lyrium to my lips.

“Assassin,” I hear Morrigan’s commanding voice as I slip into unconsciousness, “I assume you can gather venom from the carcasses without injuring yourself.”

Any reply is lost in the roar of my never-ending battle against the archdemon caged inside me. When I emerge, it has an even smaller, tighter prison, but I have no concept of what time has passed. 

I first become aware of Morrigan’s soft snoring beside me, and the briefest brush of my will tells me she is mending handily. I become more gradually aware of a conversation between my male companions about “Sten” being a title rather than a given name. I lay quietly, gleaning the knowledge of Tal’vashoth, which it seems is what the Qunari call their political and religious dissidents. I do not gain an understanding of what a Sten’s role might be in the Qunari military structure, nor what my companion’s birth-name may be. I do, however, have a deepened respect for my taciturn friend as I hear the conviction and certainty in his voice when he claims his title as the truth of his person. I find that I have a renewed zeal to seek evidence of his missing sword so that I may return it, and the missing part of his soul to him.

I don’t comment on this as I struggle to my feet. Nor do I have opportunity to comment on anything else as I am suddenly off my feet again, held in Zevran’s solicitous arms, pinned tightly, but gently, against his remarkably strong chest and nestled on his lap. A bowl of steaming stew is pressed into my hands. While I manage to convince Zevran to let me feed myself, no amount of argument seems to convince him to let me out of his embrace. 

"Why?" I ask with a sigh of defeat and lean against the unyielding strength of his torso.

"Aside from the simple matter that my life is bound to your survival?" He asks with his usual lecherous grin, "Morrigan has promised slow, excruciating, and thoroughly unpleasant torture should I fail to keep you from harm while she sleeps. Is there any more effective way to protect a beautiful woman than to hold her tightly and be between her and any source of harm?"

"Sound logic," I reply, only just suppressing a grin, "except that you have made frequent threats toward my virtue."

He looks at me with the most earnest expression I have ever seen upon his face. "With my own eyes I saw you attempt to give your very life for another, uncommanded and without promised reward. The whores of Antiva City only whispered of that act as a Chantry tale and laughed that people of such virtue could not exist. Your virtue is an impossible thing that I am no threat to."

I look at Zevran with mingled shock and suspicion, slowly sipping my soup to cover my speechlessness.

He breaks the moment a heartbeat later, however, with his usual smarminess. "I will, of course, offer to pay homage to your virtue with every part of my body when we return to camp, but to do so now would overtax your strength. While I am quite certain the pleasure of making love to such a woman as you would be worth all the tortures Morrigan could imagine," he pauses to give me the most effective leer yet, "I would not risk so depriving you of a second experience of my worship."

I swallow hard to keep from spitting out my stew, "Well then," I say brightly to cover my exaspiration "it seems you are also honor bound to save me from death by boredom, so tell me about your time in the Crows."

The stew is quite good, and the scent of leather and spices unique to Zevran is not unpleasant. His voice rumbling up through his chest and wrapping around my ears is like a cocoon of silk, and I find I am hearing less of the words than the timbre and cadence. His right hand makes controlled but emphatic gestures to punctuate his tale, while his left secures me protectively and comfortably against him. True to his prior word, his hands do not move to further explore my curves. 

My eyes begin to flutter closed, and without really thinking about it, I find I am exploring the essence of another companion. Where Morrigan’s being had been defined by determination and drive, Zevran’s seems a morass of uncertainty and desire. The desire is not a physical thing, though my delving makes sense of his incessant flirtation. No, the desire is something more than a sexual urge, but a need for belonging just as primal. I pull myself from my exploration and force my eyes open once more to find Sten staring at me curiously while making his usual warding gestures. 

I turn in Zevran’s arms, setting down my empty bowl to embrace him fiercely. “Thank you, Zev” I whisper in his ear.

I extricate myself from his surprise-loosened grip and reward him with a brilliant smile before waking Morrigan.

“Your turn to get a little rest, men,” I say softly, “we can’t afford to stay here long.”


	23. Dragons and Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The path to werewolves is long and full of dangers

Zevran doesn’t ask the question I can feel burning in the eyes he keeps glued to me from his position as rear guard. I know my sudden hug baffles him, more so because I gently turn aside every attempt he makes at flirtation. He makes those attempts often between exterminating horse-sized cave spiders and clearing whole battalions of undead guardians on our way through the subterranean ruins. 

One battle seems to blend into the next, and I find myself filled with gratitude over and over that fountains and pools in this prehistoric ruin still flow with mystically cleansed water. The occasional startled nug means we have plenty of protein as well to keep up our energy for what seems to be an interminable slog from battle to battle. Morrigan and I are both showing signs of wear from heavy and repeated channeling, and we have reached a silent agreement to take turns using magic from battle to battle. If we face fewer than 10 enemies, only one of us casts spells, so that the other may remain in reserve to heal. It makes for longer individual skirmishes, but less down-time required after.

We are feeling almost as though we have stumbled upon a repetitive pattern that we can anticipate when we find ourselves in a vast chamber with grand stairs leading down to an artfully tiled hall. A pattern of concentric rings glows with runes I do not recognize, and what can only be described as heaps of melted armor and ash dot the floor at intervals. Zevran halts us, quietly pointing out what appear to him to be pressure triggers littered across the mosaic floor. He creeps down to the nearest and stealthfully completes a series of strange motions that result in a soft, mechanical click followed by silence. He steps away from the identified pressure plate and lifts a warped great-sword, gingerly pushing at the tile he just manipulated. Nothing happens, and we all sigh in great relief. He repeats the actions a few more times in different places, then motions the rest of us into the chamber. We venture confidently in, only to find ourselves screaming in horror as a horse-sized, scaled nightmare of wings, claws, and dagger-like teeth falls upon us from the nest of stalactites far above.

Only when Morrigan has encased it in a wall of ice and I have wound its essence into a crushing prison do we take note of the thing’s true shape. It’s a dragon. A young one, to be sure, and nowhere near even half-grown if the tales are to be believed. Knowing the current age was named for the reemergence of a species thought long extinct is one thing, seeing the truth with my own eyes is something else altogether. Even young as it is, the dragon shrugs off Morrigan’s and my spells with inordinate will and charges at us with bared tooth and claw. We meet the bites and slashes with deft thrusts and swings of our staves as our more martially trained companions attempt to slip blades between impossibly hard scales. 

The dragon emits a pained screech as Zevran slips beneath wing and claw to bury a short-sword hilt-deep in the vulnerable skin of its belly. He wrenches it back and forth before pulling it clear and darting away as the young dragon rears. No further shrieks or keens emit from its open jaws, instead there is only a frothy gurgle. Steaming blood floods down from the dragon’s rent breast to the tiles at our feet and the once proud creature crashes down into the dark pool.

I would feel regret at the death of such a rare beast, had it not been trying to dine on me or my companions. We stand silent and still for a long moment, then with a sense of reverence, my companions and I carefully skin the dragon. As Sten and Zevran attempt to preserve its hide, Morrigan and I gather what blood we can into the cleaned flasks of our spent potions. We do our best to remove and preserve highly prized soft tissues and gather the claws and as many dagger-like teeth as we can remove. Should we emerge alive from the foray into the lair of werewolves, the pieces of the young dragon might fetch enough coin for us to outfit half an army, provided we can sell it in a way that won’t benefit the other side of Ferelden’s civil war.  
I feel no more than a determined inevitability as mace-wielding corpses in the corners of the chamber rise and shamble toward us as we set forth across the tiled hall. Unlike the dragon and the unexpected spiders, the shambling hordes of the long-dead are simple enough to blast or turn on one-another so that my companions can take moments to breathe and refresh. My supply of foraged elfroot that seemed so endless only days ago dwindles as we seek further and further into the depths of what was obviously a great city at some point in the immemorial past. We eventually take to throwing torches down hallways and into rooms to start burning corpses before they can rise, but as we enter what appears to be an ancient library, Morrigan and I look knowingly at one another and I command our companions into place in the stone hall. 

“Zevran,” I begin, gesturing with my staff as I outline the plan, “you will race in that room and back out to the far side of the corridor beside us. The undead will rise and follow you.” 

Zevran looks as though he is about to question, but I continue, looking to my next companion as I say her name. “Morrigan, you will wall off the retreat to the room behind with ice.”

Morrigan nods with a sly twinkle at the back of her eyes. 

“I will set the walking corpses to explode,” I continue, placing my hand on my chest for emphasis, “and shield us from the flying bone. Should any survive that,” I pause for effect and turn my eyes sharply to my male companions, “Sten, you and Zevran will take your blades to them while Morrigan and I provide support.” 

Sten nods with an air of surprised approval, but Zevran cocks his head as though he might protest this change in tactics. 

“We must preserve and recover any knowledge in that room if at all possible,” I plead with Zevran.

“Is it worth my skin,” Zevran queries, “if the books are no more than a most ancient version of the Randy Dowager Quarterly?”

I think for a moment, then let a sultry grin spread across my face. “Your skin would be the most grateful for adding that knowledge back to the world,” I purr softly at Zevran, “would it not?”

My Antivan companion throws his head back and lets out a deep laugh. Morrigan and Sten shake their heads, matching masks of disgust dropping over their faces. Zevran is still grinning as he charges into the ancient library.

My heart beats barely quicken as Zevran races back to my side, a shambling mass of corpses stumbling out of the library doorway behind him. The elf winks and grins as he steps up next to Sten and draws two blades, settling into stance poised for battle. Sten rolls his massive shoulders and adjusts his hands on the grip of his greatsword. 

“Hold,” I whisper, as much to myself as to my companions, while the undead move steadily toward us across the expanse of the hall.

A heartbeat later I feel the gathering of power as Morrigan begins to weave her spell, and I seek out the threads of the spell animating the corpses in turn. Just as I hear the crackling of Morrigan’s ice race across the far end of the corridor to close off the library door, I shove my seething infection into the weave powering the undead in the center of the mass and tie it into place. A breath later I snap my will into a solid shield around my companions. The barrier is not a moment too soon as bony fists pound and fleshless fingers scrape against it. I can’t even spare the focus to count the unliving, undying things crowding against my will, needing every bit of me to simply sustain it against the onslaught. Heartbeats pass in this seeming stalemate before the first explosion.

The sensation of thousands shards of bone striking my shield at high velocity is something I find I will never get used to, even if it seems my will wavers slightly less this time than prior attempts of this tactic. Each successive explosion and shower of shrapnel is a little more difficult to shrug off, but I hold through sheer determination until several heartbeats pass with no further explosions.

I drop my shields and stumble back, leaning heavily against the stone wall of the corridor behind me. My world spins off-kilter and I lose sense of time and place in a wave of vertigo and nausea. I am only vaguely aware of the sounds of crunching bone and clashing steel in front of me as I fight my own battle. The archdemon’s echo thrashes against the bars of its cage in my soul. I must bring my entire will to bear to hold that cage together and keep the vile corruption inside from reaching its prey. The moment of shock at realizing the prey is something other than me is almost enough time for the corruption to overwhelm me, but I fight it back into its place and reach out to the softly shimmering beacon the taint was attempting to reach. 

“My baby,” the gasp of understanding that escapes my lips is lost in the din of the melee. Inside me, however, an inferno of protective zeal erupts as I hold the barely aware spark close to my own essence and begin to cocoon it in layers of the purest love. Only when it is secure do I raise my awareness to concerns of the physical, and my staff to protect my face from a sweeping claw of bared bone. I push out a pulse of pure will and hear a satisfying crunch as ancient bones splinter and explode within an equally ancient cuirass and helm I turn away from the metal shell as it falls to the stones of the corridor and toss a few more bolts at the last remaining corpses locked in battle with my companions. It is enough, and grunts of effort mark the final crushing blows that destroy the last corpses beyond reanimating. 

Only Morrigan seems to notice my protective cradling of my abdomen and the soft, secret smile that hangs about my lips as my companions and I sit within the semicircular space of my prior shields. After all, it is the only spot in the entire corridor free of bone shards and ancient armor bits. None of us talk as we pass around and empty a waterskin full of weak elfroot tea down our throats and wait for the magic binding the barrier of ice before the library door to dissipate. Satisfaction seems to mark both Sten’s and Zevran’s expressions as they nod to one another in congratulation of another small battle well fought. Morrigan is assessing me, and her eyes tell me in no uncertain terms that we will be talking later.

We are all energized and perfectly steady on our feet when the wall of ice groans and collapses into so much frost on the stairs down to the library. The eerie glow of veilfire braziers casts flickering shadows over rows and rows of perfectly ordered and preserved bookshelves crowded with unmanageably large tomes. Morrigan and I share a regretful gaze. For all the effort to preserve it, there is no way we can carry the library with us. I hang my head in resignation and my gaze catches a glitter in the far corner of the hall. 

Regret replaced by curiosity, I reach under an ancient fallen tapestry that is more dust now than cloth and retrieve an orb of what appears to be carved and polished stone. I expect it to be cool to the touch in the subterranean gloom of the ancient library, but it pulses with warmth. I cannot look away from the rapidly intensifying glow within the core of the stone, and I find my will battling not to be pulled into the center of that glow. 

The moment between two heartbeats stretches into a timeless infinity and I know without any of my physical senses that I am not alone in this moment. The other studies me as I grasp for understanding of it… no him. He wonders if I am real, and I share with him recent memories of the travel through the Brecilian Forest and battle with darkspawn before that to prove my reality. 

The other expresses wonder and shares memories, impressions of vast, glorious cities, gardens, temples, soldiers, battles and then an interminable darkness of solitude and despair. I recognize nothing in his memories save a handful of stone statues from the very halls I have just traversed to this place. “How long have you been alone here?” I ask of the other being.

No words are spoken in this timeless, placeless space, and I am answered only with the impressions of solitude, madness, catatonia, and more solitude. The other within begs for release, oblivion. “How?” I ask, and he understands. The nothingness fades into a memory of the library in which I found the orb, only sparkling, clean, and full of the vibrant life it must have held before it was plunged into the depths. A figure of a lithe, elvhen man clad in a coat of shimmering viridium scales walks to a stone altar and places the orb upon it. He raises a hand and the image of a staff coalesces into it. I hear words in my mind and feel the weave of power necessary to destroy the orb. 

Large green eyes turn to me with a pleading expression. The eyes are made even larger by the gaunt cheeks, pale skin and bald head that surround them. 

“I can do this for you,” I whisper in compassionate sadness, “I can grant you death, but in doing so I would render all you have been, all your people have been to the same oblivion.”

The words he speaks in return are incomprehensibly beautiful to my ears, but I somehow understand that he has offered to give all he remembers of his living time if I will grant him release from his prison of disembodied and infinite solitude. 

I agree and open myself as words, images, concepts, tastes, smells, thoughts, memories and all the nuanced sensations that embody a life are woven into my being. I wonder at first if I have just allowed a spirit to possess me, but no. The elf steps away from me, a thing separate and wholly unique from me, even if I now have a storehouse of his memories and sensations. Most importantly in this moment, though, I have a link with my flesh and the knowledge of how to use it to return to myself.

With a shake, I look away from the orb and glance toward the corner of the room. A stone altar resides upon a dais just as it did in the elf’s memory. I feel the longing from the orb almost as palpably as if he were inside me, but despite the empathy we are separate things. My companions watch my progress to the altar in bafflement. Morrigan is the first to understand as I place the orb on the altar and lift my stave. She steps from between the shelves of tomes and shouts in protest, but moments too late. I stream of ancient words forgotten for millennia issues from my lips, and power coalesces around me. 

A bright light surrounds the orb upon the altar and a sharp crack shocks even Morrigan into silence. The light fades and the power dissipates. In the echoing silence I hear a deep voice “Ma melava halani,” it whispers, “ma din'an sahlin, ma serannas.”   
“Ar lasa mala revas,” I whisper in return, “dareth shiral mir din'an.” Tears slip down my cheeks as I bid farewell to the departing memory. 

I turn to meet Morrigan’s stormy glare and whisper “he left me his memories.” The play of shock and avarice rolling over her features is almost comical, but her chin is set in determination by the time I announce to our companions that we will retrieve what we can later, but we have more immediate responsibilities. 

As we leave behind the library, I can’t completely stop the grin that quirks the corners of my lips as I glance over the flowing script on the pages on the single book Morrigan had pulled from a shelf and left open on the edge of a cabinet. The flowery prose explains a remarkable scandal that would make even the Randy Dowager herself blush. More important by far, though, is that I hold the secret of reading and understanding the words.


End file.
